


i'm falling now, but it's so wrong

by obsceme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Hate Sex, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Sexuality Crisis, Steve Harrington is a Fuckboy, Unhealthy Relationships, because of the hate sex lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25866382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsceme/pseuds/obsceme
Summary: Despite Steve having a toothbrush that he leaves lying next to Billy’s on the bathroom sink, a few extra pairs of his work clothes hanging in the closet, and a literal fucking key to the place, they aren’t dating. They’re just two guys who hang out a lot and occasionally stick their hands down each other’s pants.Totally casual, totally heterosexual.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Original Male Character(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 63
Kudos: 378





	i'm falling now, but it's so wrong

**Author's Note:**

> title is from helium by glass animals (i suggest listening to the entire dreamland album while reading this, ya know. if you're into that sorta thing)
> 
> so this is my first time ever writing something this long from billy's perspective, and i have no idea how it turned out so pls be gentle w my sensitive ass. just a few notes: i know nothing about san francisco other than the random stuff i googled, so take my descriptions of the palo alto area with a grain of salt lmao. also, the mildly dubious consent is v e r y mild, and i really only put it there as a general heads up about some of the angry sex these two idiots have. and ofc, harringrove is endgame because who would want to read anything else?? certainly not me.
> 
> anyway this is my love letter to u all and i hope u enjoy xoxo

The thing is, Billy knows it’s wrong.

He’s known since the beginning, since the very first time he ever let a pretty boy like Steve Harrington get him off in the backseat of his Camaro. 

He knows better than to take a straight guy to bed. Hell, Billy had stopped letting himself walk that path years ago, because he knows exactly where that path leads. He knows what the outcome of a situation like this will always be.

But, see, there’s just one small problem. Steve is the definition of Billy’s kryptonite. Tall, pretty, and a little mouthy, with a full head of dark hair and big, brown doe-eyes, Steve had always felt a little inevitable. Billy had _wanted_ , and when the temptation was dangled right in his face, he couldn’t find it in himself to say no.

In the beginning it was just hookups, just Billy satisfying an irresistible craving. Except, unsurprisingly, he came to realize that Steve isn’t just someone you fuck around with. 

No, that boy is someone you _love_ , deeply and wildly and with every fiber of your being. If Billy had known that going in, he sure as fuck wouldn’t have let himself have a taste.

Because now he’s addicted. Hopelessly addicted. Even while watching Steve pull on his pants with his back facing him, even while he’s feeling disappointed and used and a little lonely, Billy can’t find it in himself to put a stop to it.

“‘M not working Thursday,” Billy says, propping himself up against one of his couch pillows. “You coming by again?”

Steve only shrugs his shoulders. He slips on his sunglasses and snags his discarded keys from the floor. “Maybe. Might have a date.”

The words sink down into the pit of Billy’s stomach, burning there like acid. It leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, like he’s been sucking on pennies.

He wants to tell Steve to get the fuck out of his house, tell him that their little arrangement is over, that Steve can go find some other desperate whore to fill the pathetic void he’d been so eager to fill up with the touch of another man.

Instead, Billy flashes what he hopes isn’t a bitter smile and says, “cool. I’ll be around.”

Steve doesn’t look back as he walks out the door.

* * *

It started the winter after they graduated.

Billy hadn’t wasted any time hauling ass out of Neil’s house that summer. Two hours after the graduation ceremony, he was packed up and tearing out of the driveway, leaving the cruel eyes of the glorified sperm donor who calls himself his father in a cloud of exhaust. 

Billy had no plan, no money, no friends, but anywhere, _anywhere_ was preferable to another minute spent under that roof.

Living out of the Camaro for a while hadn’t been ideal. It was small and cramped and hot as all fucking get-out during the summer months, and yet he’d slept better during those solitary nights than he ever had before in his entire life. For the first time in a very long time, Billy hadn’t felt the need to sleep with one eye open. 

He’d forgotten how good it could feel, not being so fucking terrified of his own goddamn shadow.

The end goal had always been getting as far away from Hawkins as he possibly could, preferably back home, back to the life he’d been forced to give up. But starting his life back over in California wouldn’t be cheap. If Billy wanted to get back to his mother and his friends, he had to settle for Hawkins - for the time being.

But his temporary delay had turned into something not so temporary. He’d landed a mechanic’s gig rather easily, given the experience with cars he had under his belt and his modest reserve of charisma and charm. Five paychecks later Billy was off the streets and renting the first home of his own. 

And, sure, those things in and of themselves weren’t necessarily enough to have him scrapping the plan he’d been curating since he’d stepped foot into Hawkins. 

That hadn’t occurred until one early, icy morning in December of 1985.

Steve Harrington had cruised up to the garage in a shiny new Mustang, Ray Bans perched on the smooth slope of his nose and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Being that it was barely eight o’clock, the shop was devoid of customers and employees other than Billy himself. 

Billy had seen Steve around town every now and then, but their previously limited interactions had become all but nonexistent following _That Night_ at the Byers house. It had been odd to see him up close again.

“Got room for an oil change?” Steve had asked, the cigarette between his lips extinguished and replaced with a toothpick. He looked the same, still all long limbs and poorly disguised awkwardness, but it’d felt like looking into the face of a stranger.

When Steve slid his sunglasses off, Billy hadn’t missed the shadow of a scar running across his cheekbone. Something sick and bitter blossomed in his gut. 

He’d swallowed around the lump in his throat and said, “We’re pretty backed up today, probably won’t be ready ‘til this afternoon.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” 

Steve’s expression had been easy and light, and the tension that Billy didn’t even realize he’d been holding quickly drained from his shoulders.

True to his word, Steve spent most of the morning lounging around in the lobby, thumbing through the same few outdated magazines. It’d taken him an impressive two hours to finally step outside for a smoke, just outside of the garage where Billy was working.

“Figured you’d be long gone by now,” Steve commented, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, the other holding his cigarette. 

His voice had startled Billy enough to make him jump, smacking his head on the hood of the Acura he’d been working on. “Christ, Harrington, you’re like a damn cat.”

Steve had given him an apologetic grin, offering him a drag from his cigarette. “My bad,” he said with a shrug. “Seriously, though. What’s big, bad Billy Hargrove still doing in a shithole like Hawkins?”

The words burned Billy to his core. Big, bad Billy with his bitter tongue and bloody fists crying out for help. Always crying out for help, some way, somehow. It was pathetic, the cruel façade he put up. Still is. Steve knew it, and everyone knew it. They knew who Billy really was, and what he was really running from. 

It made him want to pound on Steve right then, until Billy had him bloody and crying his way through stilted apologies. 

Instead, Billy had simply sneered and said, “thought a rich, pretty boy like you would’ve fucked off to Yale by now. Guess it figures, even daddy’s money can’t compensate for not being able to read.”

Steve flinched at the harsh bite of his words and Billy felt a sick sort of pleasure. He’d learned about Steve’s dyslexia from Tommy towards the tail-end of their senior year. Throwing it in his face and watching him crumple had some shameful part of Billy bubbling over with joy. 

Even with that anxious voice in his head screaming his father’s name like some sort of warning bell, it always felt _good_ to be cruel. 

Billy had left home to end the cycle of abuse once and for all, only to throw himself into being just like Neil at the drop of a hat. Funny how shit works out.

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Steve had asked after several long beats of silence, peering at Billy with wounded eyes.

It was bait and Billy had known it. That knowledge hadn’t stopped him from taking it anyway. “You’ll have to elaborate. Feel free to use small words if you need to.”

Steve’s expression had soured at that. He’d thrown his cigarette butt onto the pavement and stomped it out before answering. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe constantly fighting to achieve status as the world’s biggest fucking douchebag?”

“There he is. Thought maybe King Steve went and turned bitch for good.”

There’d been this look on Steve’s face, like he wanted to keep going, to keep pushing. But that fire fizzled out and he’d turned on his heel without another word, heading back inside.

Billy didn’t see Steve’s face for another few hours, until he’d gone to take his lunch break. Steve was dozing in a dinky plastic chair by the window, but his eyes popped open readily at the sound of the door leading to the garage opening. 

“Done with my car yet?” 

Billy shook his head. “Lunch break. Dale’s working on your shit now.”

“Where’re you going?” Steve inquired. He’d looked far more interested than Billy would’ve anticipated, even if he hadn’t just killed their conversation in the garage simply by being himself.

“Fucking hell, Harrington. I _just_ told you,” Billy huffed. “You got anything in that pretty little head of yours other than a few gnats flying around?”

Steve had given him an exaggerated eye roll. “No, dickhead. I meant where are you _going_? For lunch. I’m fucking starving.”

“I wasn’t aware I’d sent you an invite.” Billy grabbed his keys as he spoke, then headed out to the front lot.

“Yeah, well,” Steve replied, hot on his heels, “consider this me inviting myself. What, got a hot date or something? She into the whole stinky, greasy mechanic thing you’ve got going on?”

“First of all, I always smell fantastic. And second, you want something? You ask me nicely.”

Steve considered his words. “You want me to be nice to you? After all of the bullshit that came out of your mouth earlier?”

“Haven’t you heard, Stevie boy? Only the worst things in life are free.”

Steve had rolled his eyes so hard that Billy had worried for a second that they’d pop right out of his head. “Fine. How about fifty bucks?” 

“If you’re trying to bribe me, that’s not exactly the kind I’m looking for,” Billy had told him with a laugh. “But it’ll do. Get in.”

There’d been an odd look on Steve’s face, as if he were rolling Billy’s words around in his head, trying to decipher their true meaning. It stayed on his face throughout the entire drive. His expression only morphed into something akin to curiosity when they’d pulled up the driveway to Billy’s house.

“When’d you get your own place?” Steve questioned as he appraised the quaint, one-bedroom home.

“Soon as I possibly could,” Billy said with a shrug before stepping out of his car. “You coming or what? Ain’t got all day, your majesty.”

Lunch had been eaten in silence, but Billy was surprised to find that it wasn’t necessarily awkward. It’d been more companionable than anything. 

Steve had complimented him on his new digs as he sat down, though Billy only grunted in acknowledgment before plating two sandwiches. After that, neither of them spoke until they were in the car once again, heading back to the garage.

“What kind of bribe _were_ you looking for?” Steve asked, his voice cutting through the quiet like a hot knife through butter.

Billy hadn’t replied right away. He’d been thrown off guard, enough so that he could only blink at Steve for a long moment. Part of him had immediately considered brushing it off as a joke, the denial resting on the tip of his tongue. 

But there was this look on Steve’s face. Billy saw something burning in his eyes that had him swallowing the words right back down his throat.

Then he’d taken the leap. “Take a wild guess, Harrington.”

Needless to say, they didn’t make it back to the garage before the end of his shift, and Billy definitely got docked a hefty portion of his paycheck that week. But with the way Steve had looked in the backseat of the Camaro, positioned sweetly between Billy’s legs as he wrapped his lips around his cock, Billy hadn’t been too bent out of shape about it.

The blowjob wasn’t good, Billy still isn’t too hard-pressed to admit that. There was a serious lack of rhythm and it’d been all teeth. Steve could only fit about half of Billy’s dick into his mouth at one time. 

But even still, Billy had gotten off so hard that stars danced behind his eyelids.

Steve hadn’t said much afterward. He’d simply tucked Billy back into his underwear and employee jumpsuit before buttoning him up, only speaking to say, “I’m not queer, just so we’re clear on that.”

“My dick in your mouth kind of said otherwise, princess,” Billy quipped with an impish smile. “Relax. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Don’t call me that,” Steve interjected, face twisted into an unpleasant scowl. “I'm not a fag. You can’t tell anyone about this, alright?”

The words had something unpleasant settling in the pit of Billy’s stomach, something that burned like hot coals or a lit match or _regret_.

“Like I said,” he’d answered, putting on the detached mask he’d been hiding under for as long as he could remember, “Our little secret. No need to get your panties in a bunch.”

When Steve had gotten out of the car back at the garage, the look on his face was so bitter and disgusted that Billy naturally assumed it’d be the last memory he’d have of him. 

Two days later, Steve had shown up on his doorstep with a bag of shitty takeout and an attitude sour enough to rival a pack of SweeTarts. Billy had just barked a humorless laugh before letting Steve manhandle him onto the couch.

It doesn’t matter that every touch, every passing glance, burns sharp and acidic in Billy’s gut. It doesn’t matter that every kiss weighs heavy and bitter on his tongue, a poignant reminder of what’s just out of his reach. It doesn’t matter that they need to fucking _stop_. Billy has spent half his life disrespecting himself. 

He has room for more.

* * *

“Christ, Harrington, _teeth_ ,” Billy whines, flicking Steve’s cheek. 

Steve pulls off of him with a glare, one hand still fitted around Billy’s cock. He uses the other to wipe the drool from his lips. “‘S not my fault you’ve got a fucking tree trunk for a dick.”

“Is that a complaint that I’m hearing?” Billy asks, arching one brow. “You _do_ want to cum today, yeah? ‘Cause you’re making it really hard for me to want that for you.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Steve replies, monotonous, rolling his eyes, “I’m so afraid.”

Before Billy can even open his mouth, Steve is sucking him back down his throat in one go. This time, he manages to hollow out his cheeks without scraping his teeth unpleasantly along the delicate skin, and Billy’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He fists a hand into Steve’s hair, reveling in the feeling of Steve’s throat constricting around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Billy moans, tugging on the strands between his fingers, exactly the way he knows Steve doesn’t like. He knows he’ll probably get an earful about it at some point, something along the lines of _I spent 3 hours styling that, dickhead_.

Right now though, he doesn’t care, because the inside of Steve’s mouth is like a dream. So warm and wet and velvety soft that it’s almost like getting head from God himself. Not to mention that Steve has the perfect lips, pink and plush and kissable. It makes for an incredible view whenever Steve is down on his knees in front of him. 

Billy watches through heavily lidded eyes as Steve slides his mouth off of him with a wet pop, tonguing the head of his cock while using one hand to work him over with firm strokes. When Steve begins to suck on the tip, he looks up at Billy through his lashes, letting some saliva drip down from his mouth to slick his palm. 

The orgasm hits Billy like a truck, punching the air straight out of his lungs.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” is all he can manage, a low whine rumbling in his chest as covers Steve’s face in white streaks.

Steve strokes him until there’s nothing left, then sits back on his heels, looking mighty satisfied. “I think I’ve more than earned myself an orgasm tonight,” he says, smug.

Billy cracks a wry grin, still trying to catch his breath. “Come here then,” he says when he’s finally able to form words again. He shifts to lay down on the couch, patting his chest lazily.

“If you want me to sit on your face, all you have to do is ask,” Steve tells him with a snort, using his discarded shirt to clean off the mess still coating his skin.

Rolling his eyes, Billy grabs Steve’s hand and yanks him down on top of him, then gives his ass a healthy smack. “You want to cum? Take that mouth of yours down a notch.”

Steve wriggles in Billy’s grip, wrinkling his nose. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a little bossy?”

“Not to my face,” he replies easily, hooking an arm behind his head. “Why? Heard any rumors?”

The laugh that falls from Steve’s lips is wholly unexpected. It’s a real laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of him, warm and sincere. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Might’ve been brought to my attention once or twice,” Billy says. He easily maneuvers Steve so that he’s seated on his chest, facing him with his cock bobbing barely an inch from his lips. “Two choices. You can either make yourself cum on my face, or wait until I suck you off tomorrow.”

Steve squirms, his cheeks tinged pink. Billy can’t really tell if he’s considering his options, or if he’s simply having one of his shy off-days. Those kinds of days are few and far between, but they do happen. 

Generally, Steve only withdraws into himself after a particularly unpleasant talk with his father, or after seeing Nancy Wheeler. Billy finds it safe to assume that he hadn’t seen Nancy, because if Steve had, he surely would’ve gotten an earful about it by now.

“See your dad today?” Billy asks casually, resting his hands on the soft skin of the thighs spread across his chest.

“My dick is literally in your face and you’re asking about my _dad_?” Steve huffs, his eyes bugging a little. He smacks Billy’s hands away. “If you’re trying to punish me, just spank me or some shit. Fucking hell.”

Billy cackles, then tilts his head forward to sweep his tongue softly over the underside of Steve’s dick, pulling a stuttered moan from his lips. “It wouldn’t really be a punishment if you enjoyed it.”

“You’re such a little shit,” Steve whines, rocking his hips forward. “I hate you.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who was kind enough to give you options.”

Steve tangles a hand into Billy’s hair and grabs a fistful, yanking his head back. He strokes his cock roughly, positioning himself directly over the seam of Billy’s lips. 

“Newsflash, your options fucking suck,” he hisses, then spills himself in thick spurts over the parted lips beneath him with a broken cry.

Billy can’t help but get his mouth on Steve to catch the last bit of his release on his tongue. He’s never been one to wax poetic about stupid shit like the way someone tastes, and he’s not about to start with Steve. Frankly, he tastes the same as everyone else that Billy has ever been with: like cum. Nothing special or exquisite about it. 

Yet Billy still can’t fucking get enough of it, drinking it up like he’s a plant and it’s the first rain after a heavy drought.

When Steve flops down on top of him, spent and relaxed, Billy wants to card his fingers through his hair, maybe press a kiss to the top of his head. But they don’t do shit like that. Steve had drawn a very clear line in the sand when they’d started messing around. 

It’s going on over half a year since then and Billy still has yet to taste the lips that have been consistently wrapped around his cock. 

Kissing or any other mushy romantic bullshit is strictly off limits. Because apparently, the line between gay or not gay depends solely on the amount of _affection_ involved when sucking another guy’s dick, rather than the act of sucking dick itself. Somehow, in Steve’s mind, that makes sense. 

“Gross,” Steve mutters, pushing himself off of Billy’s chest. He flops down on the other side of the couch. “You’re all sticky.”

“Wouldn’t be if you knew how to aim,” Billy jests, jabbing him in the buttcheek with his toe. 

Steve yelps, then fixes him with a glare. “My aim wouldn’t be an issue if you didn’t give such shitty options.”

When Steve folds his arms over his chest and pouts like a child, Billy has to remind himself that he isn’t allowed to think it’s cute.

“You looked pretty satisfied with your choice if you ask me,” Billy tuts. “So ungrateful.”

“What _ever_ ,” Steve groans, whacking Billy in the shin with his heel before standing up. “I need to borrow a shirt.”

Steve doesn’t say it to ask permission, more so to let Billy know that he’ll be taking yet _another_ one of his shirts, making it the fifth one that he’ll likely never get back. 

Billy watches him make his way down the hall to his room with ease and a weight settles in the pit of his stomach. He’s spent more time with Steve in the past seven months than he has with anyone else in his entire life, and yet he feels like they’ve made the polar opposite of progress. 

Steve knows his way around Billy’s house, knows his takeout order by heart, how he likes his eggs cooked, how he always craves chocolate first thing in the morning. He knows how to touch Billy in all the right ways, what he likes and what he doesn’t, how to get him worked up and achingly hard. He knows what Billy sounds like when he cums, what he looks and feels and tastes like. 

And yet there’s always a wall between them, Steve’s unwillingness to face the truth blowing the rift between them wide open. 

Despite Steve having a toothbrush that he leaves lying next to Billy’s on the bathroom sink, a few extra pairs of his work clothes hanging in the closet, and a literal fucking key to the place, they aren’t dating. They’re just two guys who hang out a lot and occasionally stick their hands down each other’s pants.

Totally casual, totally heterosexual. 

Billy can feel the beginnings of a headache. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling harshly. Just because he’s too weak to break this shit off with Steve and find someone to have a real relationship with, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t often get sick of the bullshit.

Because he does. He really fucking does.

“Found one,” Steve sing-songs, walking back into the room. “Perfect for tonight.”

Billy looks up, then snorts. Steve has on one of his deep red button-ups, the one that Billy always wears unbuttoned down to the waistband of his jeans. Only Steve has it buttoned up practically to his neck, looking more like a boy scout than someone who’s going out on the town.

“Where’re you planning on going? Church?” Billy asks. He’s still lounging across the couch lazily, one arm dangling over the side, his fingertips brushing the floor.

Steve cuts him a glare. “Fuck off. I have a date, asshole.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. At this point, he really fucking shouldn’t be. But every time Billy finds out about one of Steve’s new conquests, especially after a mind-blowing hookup, it’s like a knife to the gut. Billy is bleeding from his core, and yet he’s the only one who can see it.

“Figured as much.” He didn’t, but he can pretend. “I want that one back, you know. So don’t even think about giving it to your weekly pussy fix.”

For a brief moment, Steve actually looks surprised. The look is fleeting, but unmistakable. “Not a problem. Jesus. What’s got your fucking panties in a wad?”

The anger burns the back of Billy’s throat, harsh and unignorable. He wants to twist his own knife into Steve’s gut, wants to make him feel even half of what he’s felt for the past few months. But the point is moot, and he knows it. Billy could never truly hurt Steve, not unless Steve actually cared for him at all. 

The bitter truth is that Billy is just the warm body Steve runs to whenever it works for him. Nothing more, nothing less. And it’s damn near impossible to cause someone emotional pain in an arrangement that’s lacking in feelings on one end.

He’ll still try anyway. “Just want to make that clear. ‘S not yours to give away to a bitch who’ll lose it soon as she finds a new guy to fuck next week.”

“And what the fuck makes you think she’ll find a new dick to hop onto by then?” Steve snaps, color filling his cheeks.

“You haven’t bagged the same chick twice the entire fucking time I’ve known you, Harrington,” Billy sneers. “Quit kidding yourself.”

Steve looks like he’s ready to explode, when his face suddenly returns to its neutral state. The mask slides back into place, and he shrugs. 

“Guess we’ll see,” he says. His voice is cool and calm - violently aloof. “You’ll be around tonight?”

Billy just grunts in response, too wound up to formulate a response. A twisted part of him had hoped that Steve would fight back, would push Billy harder than Billy had pushed him. He wanted an excuse, any excuse, to end this thing once and for all. It’s pathetic, honestly; he really should fucking know better by now.

Steve must take Billy’s minimal response as a yes. He grabs his keys and wallet, then slips his feet into his shoes before ducking out the door. He shuts it gently, but the sound still makes Billy’s head pulse. His headache has blossomed into a rather nauseating migraine.

Something unfamiliar settles in his gut. It makes his throat feel thick and his eyes hot. Something like anger, but also - not. Something like _sadness_. And that’s something Billy hasn’t let himself feel for a very long time. It’s a waste of time, feeling sorry for himself, always has been. He’d rather feel angry, or frustrated, or something that he can work out with his fists.

But sad? Sad is something Billy doesn’t know what to do with. At least it frustrates him. Enough so that his fist is plunged through his living room wall before he realizes he’s even doing it. He recoils after a moment, pulling his hand back and taking a decent bit of drywall with it as he does.

Billy stands there for a moment, staring at the fist-shaped hole now gaping above his couch. It’s stupid. It’s so fucking _stupid_ that he can’t help but laugh - an ugly, maniacal thing that bubbles up from deep within his chest. He needs to move on. To get the fuck over it. This is _not_ who he is. 

Billy Hargrove is not about to lose his goddamn mind over a straight, snobby pretty boy who doesn’t give him a second thought the moment his dick is out of his mouth.

Shoving his fingers through his curls, Billy takes a steadying breath. He’ll go to Indianapolis tonight, have his own night out on the town. Go out to the bars, maybe even go home with someone. Copious shots of tequila and some good dick - the real thing, not just a warm mouth going down on him - will do him a world of good. Help him forget about Steve’s big brown eyes and sinful lips. 

He knocks back some aspirin before hopping into the shower. His routine for getting ready has shortened significantly, but his hair is still the one thing that takes him the longest. Billy stands in front of his bathroom mirror for at least half an hour, trying to get his curls to sit just right. When he’s finally satisfied, he spritzes himself with a subtle dash of cologne before heading out the door.

Indianapolis is nothing compared to the big cities in California, especially Los Angeles. But the bar scene is decent enough, and there are even two obscure gay clubs that Billy frequents whenever he makes a trip to the city. _Pulse_ is his favorite, a hazy, dimly lit club nestled in between a convenience store and a sex shop.

Billy sidles up to the bar, flagging down the bartender and ordering a shot of tequila. The music is slow and hypnotic, the vibrations deep enough that he can feel them beneath his feet.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

Looking up, Billy catches sight of the guy next to him. He has a brief _holy shit_ moment, because this guy is the exact opposite of Steve Harrington. He’s the definition of what Billy’s type had always been before pretty boy Steve had come along and destroyed every standard Billy had. 

This guy is tall and brown-skinned, with immaculately styled inky black hair and striking green eyes. His lips are quirked up into a crooked smile, revealing a glimpse of blindingly white teeth. And with all that hard, lean muscle disappearing under the sleeves of his t-shirt, Billy can’t help but wonder what runway he’d just walked off of.

“That’ll go on my tab,” Billy informs the bartender, then turns back to the guy with a coy smile. 

The guy’s smile widens, and he leans up against the bar. “A real gentleman,” he says, then sticks out his hand. “That’s pretty rare these days. I’m Evan.”

“Billy,” he answers, taking Evan’s outstretched hand, covering their joined hands with his other before giving it a gentle shake. It’s a signature move of his, Billy fully admits that.

The bartender slides them their shots. Billy feels safe in clubs like this, less exposed than he does out in the real world. So when Evan makes a move to lick off the salt that he’d just sprinkled onto his hand, Billy stops him, reaching out his own hand instead. Evan grins, then does the same. As they lick the salt from each other’s skin, Billy finds himself wondering how good it’ll feel to get his brains fucked into oblivion by this guy later in the evening.

They knock back their shots and suck the juice from their lime wedges. Four shots later and they’re out on the dance floor, grinding slow and steady to the ambient beat. Billy feels delightfully warm, and the hardness of the man behind him pressing into the curve of his ass is intoxicating. Evan turns him around easily, and then they’re grinding their hips together in time with the music.

“You’ve got pretty eyes, Billy,” Evan tells him, his voice low and smooth. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

No, no they haven’t. Billy says as much.

“Well, they should.”

A few songs pass, along with a few more shots, when Evan informs him that he’s got an apartment in the city, only a few blocks away. They share a cigarette as they walk, and Billy learns that Evan has a great sense of humor. Or maybe Billy is just drunk, and everything sounds funnier than it really is. 

Either way, Billy finally remembers what it feels like to talk with someone who makes him feel comfortable and lighthearted without a distinct undercurrent of misery and regret attached.

Evan has a quaint studio apartment, but it’s cozy, covered in band posters and string lights and all sorts of thrift store furniture. His bed is just a mattress on the floor, though it’s adorned in silk sheets and piled high with fluffy blankets and pillows. Billy, with his lowered inhibitions, flops onto it with a giggle. 

“Your bed is comfy as fuck,” Billy notes, blinking up at the exterior pipes lining the ceiling.

Evan gives him an amused smile as he removes his boots, kicking them over next to Billy’s. “You smoke?”

Billy blinks, then sits up. Evan has made his way over to his bedside table and he pulls open the drawer, fishing out a joint.

“Fuck yeah,” Billy replies, grinning from ear to ear.

Evan plops down next to him, then slides up to the pile of pillows. He beckons Billy over, so he shimmies his way up the bed and rests his head in the other man’s lap. Evan sparks up the joint and they pass it back and forth in easy silence, filling the room up with a smoky haze.

When they fuck, Billy enthusiastically lets Evan take the reigns, because hell, he hasn’t had a dick splitting him open in too fucking long. And it’s so fucking good that he almost cries - but he’s not a bitch. So he doesn’t. 

He _does_ get loud, as loud as he can get, because Steve fucking Harrington doesn’t like to make noise, for fear that somehow Billy’s neighbors will hear and barge in to find them sucking each other’s cocks like a couple of faggots. 

Steve Harrington also doesn’t have any interest in getting his dick inside of Billy, ever. If that’s one of the most significant reasons why Billy was so eager to let someone take control, well. That’ll be his little secret.

Billy cums untouched all over Evan’s pretty sheets, his legs shaking and beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. He doesn’t object to being cradled against Evan’s chest after, a position he’s generally always refused to be in. Being the little spoon tends to make him feel small, weak, and incredibly vulnerable. 

Maybe he’s just touch-starved, or maybe he’s been too lonely for far too long, but at the moment, it just feels really fucking good.

They pass another joint back and forth, their voices low and relaxed as they converse quietly. Billy falls asleep feeling warm and satiated, and maybe even a little cared for. 

And damn it if that doesn’t feel really fucking good, too.

* * *

The smell of coffee and bacon pulls Billy back to consciousness the following morning. He groans, blinking his eyes open slowly, bright, offending sunlight pouring in from Evan’s uncovered windows. When Billy finally sits up, he takes note of the aspirin and glass of water sitting on the bedside table.

“This for me?” Billy calls. 

Evan turns from the stove, where he’s clearly cooking breakfast, and nods. He has that soft smile again, the one that has Billy forgetting the abhorrent mess he’s made of his life for a few blissful moments.

Billy chases the aspirin with the entire glass of water, gulping it down greedily. He’s not as hungover as he would’ve been had he not smoked before falling asleep, but his head still aches from a few too many shots. The feeling is countered by how relaxed and satiated he feels after getting some pretty fucking great dick, so, whatever. Totally worth it.

Evan brings him breakfast in bed. He’s shirtless, his body on display in all its glory. He’s got muscles for days and both arms are covered in intricate tattoos. He has on a pair of simple gray sweats, and Billy watches the way the sharp v of his hips dips under the waistband as he walks over to the bed.

“There’s sugar in the cabinet by the fridge if you need more,” Evan tells him as he hands over a mug of coffee.

Billy takes a sip, then hums in satisfaction. “‘S great,” he assures him. “I’ll take a wild guess and say you’re good at most things, if the way you make coffee and lay dick is any indication.”

A sweet laugh escapes Evan’s lips, and he gives Billy a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Try the bacon before you go deciding I’m a renaissance man.”

It’s clearly just Evan trying to be humble, because when Billy takes a bite, he moans like a fucking whore in church because Jesus _Christ_ , it’s like biting into heaven. And sure, Billy is definitely just riding the high of finally having something rub in stupid Steve’s stupid face, but whatever.

The bacon is still good, so fuck it.

“You have permission to brag about your cooking skills, because this bacon is almost better than sex,” Billy informs him. “Almost.”

“I’ll take that as a double compliment,” Evan laughs. He has a nice laugh, Billy notes.

It’s nice, having breakfast together like this. But Billy can’t help but feel something ugly brewing in the pit of his stomach, something that feels a lot like guilt. 

It’s ridiculous, Billy feeling guilty over being with someone else and liking it. He and Steve are so far from being in a relationship that they might as well be fucking strangers.

And yet here he is, sitting in another man’s apartment - a nice man, a _gay_ man, who has the capacity to return any potential feelings that may arise and be with Billy the way he deserves - feeling like he’s betraying the straight guy who only wants his dick in Billy’s mouth when none of his lady friends are available. That alone is enough to make Billy angry. 

He holds his fork in a white-knuckle grip. To Steve, Billy is just a convenient mouth that he’s free to use until he can find the girl of his dreams. And honestly? _Fuck_ that. It’s nothing but a gigantic load of horseshit. 

Billy takes a breath, calming the rapid beating of his heart until he can finally ignore the voice in his head screaming at him to get the hell out of dodge, to leave the warmth of Evan’s apartment and never look back.

Instead, Billy stays.

He stays, and he eats that goddamn delicious breakfast, returns that goddamn soft smile, and drinks his goddamn perfect coffee. Fuck Steve Harrington. And fuck all of his dramatic, sexually confused bullshit. Evan has a pretty smile and kind eyes and a generous heart. And not to mention, genuine interest in Billy. 

That alone makes Billy feel a lot less like his heart is being slowly torn in half. 

When Evan drives him back to his car, he blasts AC/DC the whole way because Billy wanted him to and Evan was more than happy to oblige. Billy keeps the window cranked down during the drive, puffing on a cigarette until they pull up to the curb in front of the club.

“Here,” Evan stops him before he can climb out of the car. His hand is outstretched, holding a slip of paper. “My number. Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

He’s giving Billy that same blinding smile, and before he can think, Billy leans over and gives him a kiss. It’s a little rough, but soft around the edges. The kind of kiss that very few of his sexual conquests have ever experienced - if any. Billy’s lips twitch when he pulls back, almost quirking up into a smile, and he slips the paper into his pocket.

“Sure,” he promises. Billy steps out of the car and fishes out his keys, waving as Evan pulls off the curb and heads down the street, his car slipping from sight as he turns a corner. 

The drive back to Hawkins isn’t as pleasant as the drive back to his car had been. Billy is reminded, once again, of how much he loathes Hawkins. He can at least save himself the trouble of dreading his upcoming shift at work, since he always has Saturdays off. Which means Billy can spend the day however he wants. Maybe he’ll work out, maybe he’ll run some errands. 

Or maybe he’ll sit his happy ass on the couch and do absolutely nothing at all. The best part about being an adult? Billy can do just that without anyone around to tell him otherwise.

Billy’s relief at having the day off is short-lived. Because when he pulls up to the house, Steve’s goddamn shiny Mustang is parked in his driveway. 

He thinks about just driving away, staying out of the house until Steve gives up, but no. Absolutely not. Absolutely _fucking_ not. It’s Billy’s goddamn house, and he isn’t about to let himself be chased out by anything or anyone. Not anymore.

He’s too fucking old for this shit.

“Where were you last night?” is what Billy is greeted with the moment he walks through the front door.

Billy gives Steve a bored look before brushing past where he’s seated on the couch, making his way into the kitchen. He tosses his keys into the dish on the table. 

“Why do you care?” Billy asks, knowing Steve isn’t far behind him.

“I came by last night.” Billy turns to see him standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. “My date didn’t pan out. You said you’d be here. You weren’t.”

A mirthless laugh escapes Billy’s lips. “I never said that,” Billy reminds him. Because he didn’t. He never once said those words.

Steve starts to look agitated, fixing his irritated gaze on Billy directly. “You could’ve just let me know that you had plans,” he huffs, “so I wouldn’t have wasted the gas driving over here.”

And okay, that’s bullshit. Steve has wasted seven months of Billy’s life, and he’s worried about wasting less than two miles worth of fucking _gas_? 

“Newsflash,” Billy mocks, that familiar, dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “My life doesn’t revolve around you or your schedule of whores. Pretty sure I can go out whenever the fuck I want. I don’t need your permission, Harrington. In case you forgot, I’m not your goddamn boyfriend.”

The words hang heavily in the air, the silence between them tense and charged. Steve looks like he’s been slapped. _Good_ , Billy thinks, petulantly, _feel like shit, asshole_.

“Yeah, because I’m not a fucking queer,” Steve spits. Then he’s getting all up in Billy’s face, and that’s a mistake. 

Billy’s hands twitch by his sides. He wishes he didn’t care about Steve so fucking much. He wishes with every fiber of his fucking being that he could stop, because nothing would feel better than popping the entitled little shit in the mouth at least _once_.

“Back up, Harrington,” Billy warns, clenching his fists by his sides. “I’m not gonna ask again.”

“Or _what_ ,” Steve hisses. Billy can feel the puff of his breath across his cheeks. “What, you wanna hit me again? Split my face open all over your floor? Hell, maybe you’ve just been dying to give my other side a match this whole goddamn time. That’d be a real fucking shocker.”

Steve is gesturing to the thin scar running along his cheek, and that does it. Billy shoves Steve back until he’s pressed up against the wall, his face twisted up into an ugly snarl. 

“How about you shut your gigantic fucking mouth, Harrington, before I shut it for you.”

“The fuck does that even- ” Steve starts to speak again, but Billy’s hand comes up, clenching his jaw in his fist. Not tight enough to really hurt him, but hard enough that he knows the threat is there.

“I _said_ ,” Billy growls, punctuating every word, “shut. Your. God. Damn. _Mouth_.”

For the first time since Billy’s arrival, Steve actually looks out of sorts. Frazzled, even. Like maybe this isn’t what he’d been expecting. Hell, it most certainly isn’t. Steve had probably come over here all high and mighty, thinking he’d guilt Billy into apologizing for having a life outside of him, and then he’d get his cock sucked and all would be right in the world. 

And that’s fucking annoying.

But then Billy notices that Steve still has on the same clothes he’d been wearing when he left last night. He’s in the same jeans and Billy’s red shirt and the same pair of Adidas, and it occurs to Billy that when he’d come around after his date went south, he’d stayed there all night. Maybe just to wait and see if at some point, Billy would come home.

That thought alone makes Billy feel incredibly distraught. Which only feeds the rage bubbling up inside of him, because goddamn it, he’s _allowed_ to be mad right now. Billy may be the king of misplaced anger, but right now he knows his is valid, and that leaves no room for guilt.

Steve can’t fucking take that away from Billy by making him feel like the world’s biggest douchebag for taking some other guy’s dick up his ass while Steve waited in Billy’s empty house all night, all alone with no one to take care of him.

“Get on your fucking knees,” Billy orders, and there’s this brief pause where Steve looks incredibly confused, and then another moment where he looks like he’s going to object. But Billy’s grip tightens on his jaw, drawing an actual whimper from Steve’s lips, and then he’s scrambling to his knees.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Steve bitches, looking up and fixing Billy with a heated glare. “I really fucking hate you. I mean it. I do.”

“Shut the fuck up and suck my cock, Harrington,” Billy practically spits, tangling his fingers in Steve’s hair and giving a painful tug, ignoring the indignant huff he gets in response.

Then Billy is shoving his jeans down, freeing himself from the confines of his jeans. Billy doesn’t give Steve time to even take a breath before he’s practically shoving his dick down his throat. 

Billy doesn’t bother with being gentle, or kind. He knows Steve’s throat is going to hurt like a motherfucker afterward, based on the way the tears pool in his eyes, the way he gags around the intrusion.

And yet Steve sucks him off like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do, taking the rough treatment with minimal complaint. 

“Look at you, taking my cock like a fucking greedy bitch,” Billy groans, snapping his hips forward in harsh, repeated movements. “That’s what you get, for fucking talking to me like that. I don’t owe you shit, Harrington. And now you just get to fucking take it for thinking that I do.”

Steve can only gurgle around Billy’s cock, but he pretty much conveys everything he wants to say through his glare. A thick string of saliva drips from his lips, down onto the shirt that isn’t his, decorating it with an impressive wet patch.

“And now look at you, ruining my fucking clothes,” Billy continues, tightening his fist in Steve’s hair as he fucks down his throat. 

Steve gags again, and it punches a moan out of Billy. The feeling of Steve’s throat constricting around him as he fucks his mouth is indescribably good. Billy wonders, for a moment, if Steve can tell that he’d been with someone else. If he can taste it on him. It’s not like he’d showered at Evan’s before he left.

The thought alone is immensely satisfying.

When he cums, he keeps Steve’s head pressed forward, refusing to let him up. “Swallow it. _All of it_.” 

And Steve does, his fingers tightening on Billy’s hips, trying to choke it all down. It’s only when he begins to sputter and cough that Billy releases his grip on his hair, letting Steve finally sit back and take in a few big gulps of air. 

Steve looks like a fucking mess. His hair is ruined, and his cheeks are flushed a deep red, streaked with tears. His lips look almost kiss-bruised, though Billy knows they’re just swollen and puffy from the friction of his cock slipping rapidly between them. There’s cum dribbling from the corner of his lips, dripping all the way down his chin to his neck.

It’s the roughest he’s ever been with Steve. There’s a brief undercurrent of guilt when Billy sees Steve swallowing rapidly, likely trying to abate the discomfort lingering in his throat. But Billy isn’t fucking ready to feel guilty yet, he’s not ready to let his anger fizzle out. So he hauls Steve up to his feet, then makes quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans.

Billy doesn’t bother getting his pants more than halfway down his thighs before he’s pulling Steve’s dick from his underwear, gripping him tight in his dry palm. He works his cock hard and fast, knowing the lack of slick stings just so. It’s a satisfying thought.

Steve is biting his lip, probably trying to fight back any sounds that threaten to escape. His fingers grip Billy’s shoulders tightly, like he’ll collapse to the ground if he dares to let go. His head thumps against the wall as he spills himself over Billy’s fist, hips stuttering forward. Steve’s release is accompanied by a soft, broken whine, his eyelids screwed tightly shut.

There’s a long silence that follows. Billy uses a kitchen towel to clean the mess off of his hand, throwing it in Steve’s general direction so he can clean himself up. When they’re both decent again, they just stare at each other from opposite sides of the room, neither daring to speak.

Finally, Steve winces and starts to say, “Billy, I- ”

But Billy doesn’t let him finish. “Get the fuck out of my house,” he cuts him off, his voice perfectly even. 

Steve doesn’t get the luxury of any further reaction. Not today.

For once, Steve doesn’t argue. Just gathers up his things before ducking out the door. Even with his rapid departure, Billy still doesn’t miss the ashamed look that always settles on Steve’s face after they hook up. But the look of shame is accompanied by something else, something that Billy can’t identify. 

It breaks his heart all the same.

* * *

Weeks go by with nothing but radio silence from Steve. Billy wants to pretend like he’s feeling better because of it, but the nasty truth is that he misses him. Billy misses the way Steve smells, the curve of his lips, the way he falls apart beneath Billy’s hands.

Billy is fucking addicted, and he’s undergoing a pretty serious withdrawal.

The car he’s supposed to be working on sits untouched in the garage before him. Billy puffs on a cigarette, glaring at the offending vehicle as if his stare alone will make it fix itself. He wishes he’d called out so he could stay at home in bed, but Billy has called out three times in the last two weeks alone. Any further attempt to get out of work would cost him his job completely.

Thing is, Billy is starting to wonder if he really cares about his job enough to keep doing this. To keep coming in just to sit and agonize over what Steve might be doing, while the work he’s _supposed_ to be completing sits before him, forgotten. 

Billy needs a serious fucking wake-up call.

It doesn’t help that Evan has called a few times, too. Just another reminder of the life that Billy is all but giving up in favor of stewing in his heartbreak over a guy who probably hasn’t thought about him since he hauled ass out of his driveway all those weeks ago. 

Billy knows he should call him back, should take Evan up on his offer to take him out for drinks or dinner. He has this distinct fear, though, that the moment he has Evan standing before him, he’ll fall to pieces.

Because the sad truth is, as good as Evan felt that night, he’s not the person Billy wants. Not even a little bit, not even close. And that really, _really_ fucking sucks.

Billy snuffs out his cigarette with the heel of his boot, grunting his displeasure. 

“ _Hargrove_! You planning on replacing that transmission sometime today?” Dale calls from the entrance of the garage. 

Billy turns to look at his boss, biting back the _go fuck yourself_ that’s resting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Billy gives him a halfhearted wave in acknowledgement, wrenching open the door to the shitty Toyota he’s been neglecting so he can pop the hood. 

The day drags by at a near-agonizing pace. Replacing the Toyota’s transmission should’ve taken him no time at all, but he’s just barely finishing up by the time he reaches the end of his shift. Billy’s brain feels like it’s soaking in a vat of concrete, too much bullshit simmering in his skull to efficiently drag himself through the day’s tasks.

When Billy is finally home, lounging on his couch with a beer in one hand and a joint in the other, he still feels like he’s drowning. He’d had this foolish hope that once he finished the monotonous, repetitive tasks he does on the daily at the shop, he’d feel better.

The fact that Billy had even entertained that thought is relatively pathetic. 

There isn’t peace anymore. There isn’t any _feeling better_. It’s just this, always _this_ in a never-ending cycle that has Billy starting to wonder if he’d somehow died and ended up in purgatory without noticing. 

It isn’t until the middle of the week, the third day in a row of mindless work that passes in slow-motion, that Billy sees Steve again. It’s at the precise moment when Steve waltzes up to the car Billy is hunched over that the hellish spell he’s been under finally breaks.

“Got room for one more today?”

Billy jumps, the feeling of déjà vu immediately starting to creep up on him. The situation is too familiar, too much like the day this rollercoaster ride with Steve first started.

Too startled by both Steve sneaking up on him, and just Steve’s general presence, Billy grabs hold of the hood of the car, not realizing there’s a jagged edge from some sort of wreck in the past. Billy sees the blood dripping from his hand before he even realizes he’s been cut.

“God _damn it_!” Billy snaps, cradling his injured hand carefully and storming back into the main lobby, not sparing Steve another glance.

Even still, Steve trails after him like a lost puppy, seemingly unconcerned. Billy grabs the first aid kit from behind the counter, glaring down at the jagged cut across his palm. Steve stands quietly, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, watching Billy tend to his wound.

“You planning on telling me why you’re here, or are you just gonna keep standing there like a cunt?” Billy huffs, cutting through the long stretch of silence. He’s blotting his palm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball, trying not to wince at the sting that accompanies each touch of the disinfectant.

Steve narrows his eyes, looking at Billy like _he’s_ the one who’s about to blow a gasket. As if Steve has any-fucking-thing to be bent out of shape about. Then, Steve smoothes out his expression, opting to level Billy with a blank look. Entirely nonchalant, and almost believable.

Almost.

“Didn’t have anything better to do,” Steve tells him, shrugging.

Billy looks at him sharply. The words are like a punch to the gut, but Billy supposes they were meant to be. Despite Steve’s outwardly unperturbed demeanor, he must still be angry about the scene that went down in Billy’s kitchen, and Billy wants to latch onto that. Wants to rub it in Steve’s face and show him how pathetic he is.

But it’d backfire, and Billy knows it. Because the sad truth is, Billy hasn’t moved past it either. It’s even more pathetic for him, he thinks, because rather than still being angry, Billy is just _sad_ \- and worse yet, disgustingly lonely. 

And it certainly doesn’t help that Steve looks so effortlessly _good_ standing there with his hair falling across his forehead, Ray Bans still perched on the bridge of his nose.

It’s a pitiful reminder that Billy is still so deep in the hole that he’s starting to wonder if he’ll ever get out. The thought is equal parts infuriating and devastating.

“Gee,” Billy starts, snorting his displeasure, “thanks. I’m so honored that you thought of me purely to satiate your boredom.”

“Been through everyone in town already. Gotta go through ‘em again, starting from square one,” Steve says. He has one brow cocked, looking at Billy like he’s waiting for him to accept the challenge that he’s so graciously laid out before him. 

Billy breathes harshly through his nose as he wraps his hand in a bandage. Reminds himself to not take the bait, even though he knows he inevitably will. 

Billy will tell Steve to fuck off, and _Steve_ will pout, _Steve_ will get his way, _Steve_ will get his dick sucked, _Steve_ will be on his merry way. And Billy? Billy will entertain the idea of launching himself off the top of the nearest building.

And around and around in circles they go.

He knows he’s taking too long to answer, because Steve starts to look slightly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot like he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. Billy feels like he’s just been presented with two equally catastrophic options, and has a limited amount of time to decide what choice he’s going to make.

One path leads him to heartbreak and devastation, letting Steve use him and abuse him until he finds the perfect girl to settle down and have a life with, leaving Billy in a cloud of dust. 

The other path includes just as much heartbreak, because it involves cutting Steve off for good. Billy knows what it’ll feel like: like his heart is being pulled from his chest and replaced with hot wax.

Billy isn’t stupid. He knows which path is the right one. It doesn’t matter that either one will break his heart, because on one path, the heartbreak won’t last forever. It’ll be agony in the beginning once he ends things with Steve. But when Billy’s wounds begin to heal, the pain will start to dull with each passing day. 

It’s the only choice Billy can make, and the knowledge settles deep inside of him, solidifying in the pit of his stomach.

“How ‘bout you leave me the fuck alone and let one of your bitches entertain you?” Billy finally offers, shoving the first aid kit back under the counter. 

It was initially Billy’s intention to then stomp back into the garage and leave Steve standing there, looking momentarily wounded and forlorn before inevitably hiding behind a mask of indifference. But what Steve says next has Billy coming to a grinding halt: “Nah. They don’t really cure boredom like your dick does.”

Billy, for a fleeting moment, wonders if he’d imagined it. Because they don’t do _this_. They don’t talk about what they do behind closed doors, not even to each other in the privacy of Billy’s home. 

Steve has adamantly refused to acknowledge, in any way, shape, or form, that he’s been with a man in any way other than as friends. Steve saying the words out loud is almost like a slap to the face.

The comment should turn Billy off. He should be disgusted by the admission that he’s just the cure for Steve’s boredom and nothing more. It should fill Billy with unbridled hatred, the kind that burns hot and acrid beneath his skin.

Instead, Billy feels a ridiculous sort of satisfaction. Knowing he’s Steve’s favorite warm body out of all the women he’s currently screwing somehow gets Billy going, desire pooling in his stomach and spreading to his chest, filling up his lungs until he’s certain he won’t be able to breathe. 

It makes him feel needed. _Wanted_. There are few things in this world that Billy has craved more than to feel wanted.

Deep down, Billy knows that he’ll always take whatever morsels Steve will give him, because he’s stupid and fucked up like that. It’s unclear whether he’s always been like this, or if it’s just this toxicity with Steve rotting his brain. 

In the end, none of the shit floating through Billy’s brain matters much. Because when Steve grabs Billy by the elbow and all but drags him into the employee bathroom, Billy just lets him. 

Any remaining coherent through flies right out of his head when Steve kicks the door shut behind them, proceeding to shove Billy up against it and sink to his knees.

“Jesus,” Billy breathes, looking down at Steve with wide eyes.

Steve just noses along Billy’s crotch, seemingly pleased when Billy’s dick reacts immediately, chubbing up in his stupid employee jumpsuit. Steve has to unbutton the ugly material all the way down to gain access, shoving the uniform from Billy’s shoulders so he can pull it down below his hips. 

In one smooth motion, Steve has Billy’s dick out of his boxers, swallowing him down like some sort of pro. Billy wants to dwell on that, wondering for a moment if there are any other guys out there that Steve has been taking advantage of in Billy’s absence.

But then Steve is hollowing his cheeks, sucking Billy down so far that his cock bumps the back of his throat, and Billy forgets about anything beyond the heat of Steve’s mouth.

Billy feels like he’s entered one of his dreams, fluctuating between two extremes: fantasy and reality. 

A quiet voice in the back of his mind reminds him that this won’t last forever. That it’s going to hurt after, one way or another. But with the way Steve is working him over, big brown eyes gazing up at him through a thick fringe of dark lashes, Billy can’t find it in himself to care.

Steve speeds up his movements, bobbing his head in time with Billy’s harsh pants. He’s biting down on his fist, trying to smother the desperate noises that keep spilling from his lips. Steve has one hand wrapped around the portion of Billy’s dick that he can’t fit in his mouth, and his long, pale fingers are stark in contrast to the golden hue of Billy’s skin. 

Billy is hyper-aware that he’s still at work, that he’s still in the employee bathroom, pressed up against a door with a shoddy lock that pops open just by jiggling the handle. He should shove Steve off of him, leave him sitting on the grimy bathroom floor with that dumbstruck look he always gets on his face when Billy does something unexpected. 

Instead, the idea of getting caught sends a little thrill running down Billy’s spine.

And maybe, just maybe, if they got caught, Steve would finally be forced to confront the reality of their situation, instead of being the one that gets to sit blissfully up in the clouds, unaware of the severity of his actions. 

Unable to keep himself from reaching out, Billy threads a hand through Steve’s hair. He’s careful not to tug on the strands, because he hasn't forgotten that Steve doesn’t like that. 

He hates how he can't forget that Steve doesn’t like that.

Steve grabs onto Billy’s hips with both hands, thumbs smoothing over the sharp line of Billy’s hip bones. His touch is gentle, the inside of his mouth is velvety soft, and Billy is so in love with him that it does him in all at once. 

He cums down Steve’s throat with a low groan, rocking into the heat of his mouth with his eyes squeezed shut. Billy is aware that his grip on Steve’s hair has tightened, pulling on it exactly the way Steve hates because, according to him, it messes up the hours of work he put into styling it. 

This time, however, Steve doesn’t complain. He just lets Billy fuck into his mouth until he’s wrung dry, then sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. The soft strands of Steve’s hair slide through Billy’s fingers as he moves, and Billy is struck suddenly by the realization that he wants to bury his face in it and breathe in deep. To find some comfort there, some semblance of security and stability.

Billy is floating, high above the clouds, and it’s blissful. So peaceful and relaxing, until it isn’t. 

The ringing in Billy’s ears slowly quiets as he comes down from his post-orgasm high, and the hazy dreamland he’d been drifting in morphs back into the disgustingly humid employee restroom that they’re currently sitting in.

Part of Billy feels like he should reciprocate. Like he should get Steve off and then go on about his day as if none of this ever happened. Just like normal. 

He wants to feel the weight of Steve on his tongue, to touch and taste him like he’s been craving.

But the other part of him still wants to get Steve back, to keep getting Steve back until he’s a sad, hollowed-out excuse of a man. Just like Billy.

Steve is looking at him expectantly, still sitting back on his heels with his head cocked to the side like he’s trying to figure things out. The guilty look that always crosses Steve’s face after they hook up makes its first appearance, as if the reality of what they’ve just done has only hit him right fucking now. 

How Steve is always able to block everything out until _after_ they’ve gotten off is beyond Billy. 

“I gotta get back to work,” Billy says after a long stretch, his voice rough. “D’you still need me to look at your car?”

Steve blinks rapidly, apparently bewildered by Billy’s decision to bail rather than give Steve what he clearly came for in the first place. He pushes himself off the ground, now refusing to look Billy in the eye. 

“No, it’s- um. I can just… you know,” Steve mutters, waving his hand in the air absentmindedly. “Come back another day. You guys are busy, obviously.”

In truth, Billy had offered to look at the Mustang as a last-ditch effort to get Steve to talk to him about this toxic cycle they’ve thrown themselves into, but Steve either didn’t catch on, or doesn’t care enough to accept the offer for what it is. And Steve is still looking guilty, but it’s tinged with an undercurrent of something that looks an awful lot like _hurt_ , something Billy can’t comprehend.

What does Steve have to feel hurt about? He figures it's relatively safe to assume that it’s just Steve pouting about Billy not getting down on his knees for him and returning the favor. 

They continue standing awkwardly for another beat before Billy ultimately decides to move first, slipping out of the bathroom quietly. Just before the door closes, Billy turns to look back at Steve one last time. 

Steve looks almost like a statue, frozen in place with his brows furrowed and his lips tugged down into a guilt-ridden frown. Billy knows that expression, knows it’s just Steve thumbing through the list of women he can run to after he leaves here to wash the feeling of Billy off of himself. 

Billy lets the door fall shut with a sigh.

* * *

The days stretch on monotonously following Billy’s encounter with Steve in the shop’s bathroom, his schedule filled with little more than eating, sleeping, working, and repeating. Though, his weeks are still punctuated by sporadic visits from Steve, in spite of Billy’s efforts to end things before disaster ruins them both. 

It doesn’t work, and they still don’t talk about it.

This time around, it’s been longer than usual since Billy last saw Steve. He comes to this conclusion while he’s wrapping up his daily workout, sitting up so quickly that his head spins. It’s a good conclusion to come to, because it has to mean that Billy is moving on, right?

Despite still seeing Steve more than he should be, Billy is thinking about him less and less, to the point where he can’t remember how long it’s been since the last time Steve sucked him off on his living room couch. 

(Always on the couch, because fooling around with a guy in said guy’s bed is for queers, Steve claims.)

Billy brushes the thought from his mind and shoves himself off his living room floor, making his way into the kitchen. He should call Evan. 

Recently, they’ve seen a lot more of each other than Billy would’ve anticipated. Just a few days ago they’d gone bowling as a spontaneous date, Billy boasting about his prowess despite majorly sucking at it. Evan had been nice enough to let him win, and in return, Billy had been nice enough to blow Evan in the bathroom of their favorite Thai restaurant.

Evan is nice. He’s safe territory, and he likes Billy. Billy tells himself that he feels the same way so many times that it starts to feel true. 

After a while, it stops mattering that it’s not. 

Billy likes the way Evan makes him feel, and that’s good enough. And maybe if he tells himself _that_ enough times, it’ll start to feel true, too.

Billy has his number memorized at this point, dialing it by heart without really thinking about it. Evan picks up after only two rings. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Billy answers, leaning back against the wall behind him. “Want to grab dinner tonight?”

“Always,” Evan says. “My place or yours?”

Billy takes a moment to think, before ultimately deciding to ask Evan to come to Hawkins. They settle on a time, Evan agreeing to pick him up at eight that evening before they say their goodbyes and hang up. 

More often than not, Billy goes to Indianapolis when he wants to see Evan. It’s easier that way. In the city, there are less reminders of Steve and the hell they’re putting themselves through than there are in Hawkins.

Tonight, however, Billy wants to be on his home turf, which is why he’d chosen to have Evan come here for a change. He wants to take Evan to the only nice restaurant in this shit town, make things between them real, and put this bullshit with Steve to bed once and for all. 

Evan knows about Steve, to a degree. One particular night, they’d gotten onto the topic of exes while taking bong rips, sharing war stories about past relationships. 

Billy hadn’t been able to control the word vomit that spilled out of him once it was his turn, relaying the fucked up nature of his relationship with Steve, despite him not technically being one of Billy’s exes. 

Evan hadn’t been judgmental about the obviously fucked up situation, opting instead to tell Billy that he understood, because apparently he’s been there before. He’d also warned Billy that messing around with a straight guy never ends well, and to be careful.

Billy hasn’t exactly said outright that he’s still fucking around with Steve on the downlow, but he suspects that Evan knows. There aren’t any physical marks to indicate what Billy gets up to when Evan isn’t around, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need a giant hickey for Evan to know that Steve still has his hooks in him.

The thing is, Evan doesn’t seem to mind. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, Billy has every intention of never speaking to Steve again after tonight. 

The idea has Billy thrumming with a bitter sort of excitement as he gets ready later that evening, dabbing some concealer on a blemish that has suddenly appeared on his chin.

Which is another thing that Billy won’t miss. The stress of this shit with Steve has been making him breakout like a motherfucker, despite never having had any issues with his skin before. Steve doesn’t just make Billy feel like shit, he also makes Billy _ugly_ in more ways than one. 

The longer he stands there getting ready, burning the last remnants of Steve out of his brain, the more ready he becomes to drop this deadweight. Billy is tired, he’s so fucking _tired_ and he’s beyond ready to start feeling alive again.

Evan picks him up around eight that evening, knocking on his front door like a gentleman.

“You ready to get the full Hawkins experience?” Billy asks when he swings open the door, giving Evan a blinding smile. It’s only a little forced, his lips twitching minutely with the effort. 

Billy chalks it up to the nervous energy that thrums through him at the prospect of broaching the topic of a relationship with Evan later in the evening. 

“Never been more ready in my life,” Evan laughs. He holds out his arm, and Billy accepts it without argument, letting himself be guided to the Camaro.

Evan knows by now that Billy always drives. Wherever they’re going, whatever they’re doing, Billy is the one behind the wheel. It’s a control thing and Billy knows it, knows this about himself, but Evan doesn’t pay it any mind. At least, not that Billy notices.

They listen to Mötley Crüe on the drive to the restaurant, even though Evan isn’t the biggest fan of the band. He does it purely because they’re one of Billy’s favorites, because he’s a nice guy who does nice things and cares about the things Billy likes. Unlike some people.

When Billy looks over at Evan, he’s slammed with the sudden realization that he’s happy. It’s a shoddy, patchwork version of happiness, but happiness nonetheless. He wants to reach out and grab it with both hands, wants to hold onto it tightly and never let it go. 

Maybe it’s not real, maybe it’s just been exaggerated in his mind, but Billy will take what he can get. Whatever he has to do to keep himself from finding out just how far down rock bottom is, Billy will do it.

When they arrive, the restaurant isn’t crowded, but that’s to be expected. Hawkins is the size of a shoebox, and crowded restaurants just aren’t a common occurrence. 

It’s a little nerve-wracking, being out to dinner with another man in such a small, close minded town, but Billy reminds himself that he really couldn’t give less of a shit about Hawkins or anyone in it. He can just move if he gets too much shit. Maybe to Indianapolis, somewhere closer to Evan. Or maybe even back to California, like he'd always planned. 

Evan appraises the menu quietly, and Billy drums his fingers on the table, already knowing what he wants to order.

“See anything you like?” Billy asks, if only to fill the silence. It isn’t uncomfortable per se, but it feels better to fill up the emptiness with _something_.

If that isn’t a metaphor for his entire fucking life, Billy doesn’t know what is.

Evan looks up from the menu, flashing an easygoing smile. “Yup. Sitting right across from me.”

Billy winces, because okay, sometimes the mushy things Evan says sets his teeth on edge. It’s not something Billy is usually into, necessarily. Or at all. But it’s fine, and Billy likes him, and that’s the end of the story. 

He clears his throat, opening his menu for the sake of having something to do with his hands.

“The chicken is good,” Billy comments, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he scans the menu. “So’s the house salad.”

“Mm,” Evan hums, nodding. 

The conversation is about as interesting as a slice of stale bread. Billy sighs, loud and harsh, tossing the menu onto the table. “Fuck it. Get the most fucked up thing you can find on the menu, like the weird shit they make on those cooking shows.”

“Are we going to be critiquing it?” Evan asks, his smile widening. “How about, let’s see… skillet cod with lemon and capers?”

“I have no fucking idea what capers are,” Billy tells him, genuinely not knowing if skillet cod and capers can be classified as _fucked up_. “Sounds perfect.”

“And what will the gentleman be having?” Evan asks with a sniff, turning his nose up like a rich snob in a classic film, though his lips twitch at the corners.

Billy scans the menu, trying to find the most chaotic entrée the restaurant offers. “I’m gonna go with duck breast with beets and watercress.”

“Do you know what watercress is?”

“Do _you_?” Billy asks, then shrugs. “Yeah, no, I have no fucking idea. Let’s just hope I’m not allergic to it.”

Evan laughs, putting his menu to the side. “Are you allergic to a lot of things?”

It occurs to Billy that Evan is trying to get to know him on a deeper level. Something about it makes Billy’s stomach turn, but he ignores it. 

He’d decided earlier that tonight is the night he wants to seal the deal with Evan, and part of that entails letting Evan in, letting him see all the parts of Billy that an outsider never could. And that includes the stupid things, like allergies.

“Hazelnuts,” Billy shares, trying to ignore how his voice wavers when he says it, as if he really didn’t want to share this objectively insignificant piece of information after all. “And horses. But that one’s not as big of a concern. It’s not 1850, what the fuck do I need a horse for?”

“Unless you settle down on a farm somewhere? Not much,” Evan agrees. “I don’t have any allergies. That I know of, anyway.”

Billy’s laugh is a little flat, even to his own ears. He tries to supplement it with a dazzling smile, but even that feels off-centered, like he just can’t quite get it right. “Here’s to hoping you’re not allergic to capers, and I’m not allergic to waterweeds.”

“Watercress.”

Billy waves him off dismissively, taking a moment to entertain himself by rolling his straw wrapper up into a ball. He loads it into one end of his straw, blowing through the other end and launching the paper across the restaurant. It bounces off the back of a baby’s head, and Billy snorts as it looks around, bewildered.

“So,” Evan starts again after a few beats of silence, shifting in his seat. “Have things been going okay at work?”

Billy thinks about it for a moment, trying to think of anything worth mentioning. 

It’s then that he’s struck by a memory of Steve, pinning him against the door of the auto shop’s bathroom and blowing him within an inch of his life. It plays in his mind in technicolor, and Billy can feel the color fill his cheeks. He coughs, trying to clear some of the thickness in his throat. 

Now that he’s started thinking about it, he can’t stop. 

It’s just Steve, stupid and pretty and spread out on Billy’s couch, beautifully wrecked with Billy’s lips wrapped around his cock. It’s just the noises that Steve accidentally lets escape from time to time - the whimpers and moans that Billy has stored away in the back of his mind so he can replay them later, over and over on a constant, never-ending loop. It’s just the way Steve looks at him sometimes, like he’s finally figured it all out, like they’re finally tipping over the edge into uncharted territory. 

It’s just the way Steve is everything Billy wants, and he’s a massive fucking idiot for thinking anything or anyone could take his place. 

“Billy?” Evan asks hesitantly, looking mildly concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just… I need to use the bathroom,” Billy blurts, standing so quickly that the table rattles. Evan looks startled, and just on the side of bewildered. 

Billy turns, ready to high-tail it to the bathroom, and makes it about an inch before freezing in place. Because at the exact moment Billy decided to make his not-so-subtle exit, Steve Harrington walks into the restaurant with an older couple - clearly his parents - in tow.

Steve doesn’t see him at first. Billy has all the time in the world right now to run to the bathroom and hide, but his feet feel like they’re cemented to the ground. 

“Bill, I think the bathroom is on the other… oh.” Evan breaks off mid-sentence, looking over Billy’s shoulder, already having worked out what he’s staring at. He doesn’t say it, but Billy knows that Evan knows it’s Steve. 

It’s always fucking Steve.

When Steve finally notices him, Billy has fallen back into his seat, rather ungracefully. His mouth is still open, like a fish out of water, and Steve looks wholly confused about seeing Billy in the only nice restaurant within Hawkins city limits. That is, until Steve catches sight of Evan, who’s still seated quietly behind Billy.

Billy can see the puzzle pieces coming together in Steve’s mind, and he feels like he might be sick. 

“Hey, look. We can just leave, Bills,” Evan says softly, “it’s not a big deal.”

It is a big deal, Billy wants to say. He wants to resume the nice dinner he’d been having with the nice guy he likes and have that be the end of it. The only problem is, Billy can’t make himself turn around and forget. Even if he could get himself to move, he doesn’t think he could hold a conversation to save his life.

Steve’s expression is unreadable, but Billy thinks he sees a flicker of jealousy as his eyes dart back and forth between him and Evan. Wishful thinking is all it is, because a moment later, Steve has that impassive look on his face as he follows his parents to their table. 

They end up being seated far enough away that Billy could just pretend like they aren’t there altogether, but the damage is done. He’s wound so tightly that it’s a wonder he hasn’t snapped yet.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Evan prods, gentle as ever. 

Billy wants to scream at him. Maybe tip the table over, or tell him he’s pathetic for ever thinking Billy could want him. The desire to be cruel is ingrained in Billy. It’s a part of him he’ll never be able to escape, not fully, and it takes all of his willpower not to indulge himself. 

Instead, Billy rolls his shoulders back, steeling his expression before picking the menu back up. “Nope.”

Evan doesn’t say anything else, and Billy wishes there was a window nearby so he could jump out of it. 

The waiter comes by after a few agonizingly long minutes. Billy orders the chicken, Evan orders the house salad, and they don’t say a word for the rest of the evening. 

Later, when they’re leaving the restaurant, Billy glances back at the Harringtons’ table, but Steve’s seat is vacant. Billy doesn’t know why, but it fills him with immense dread to see that chair so empty.

Evan pulls out a pack of cigarettes once they’re outside, pulling out two smokes and passing one to Billy. Accepting the offering gratefully, Billy lights up and takes a soothing drag. He feels off-kilter, like one more shitty event this evening will unravel him completely. 

He wants to say something, anything, but nothing satisfactory comes to mind. It all feels too cheap, too far from the truth. So Billy keeps his mouth shut, standing a safe distance from Evan but feeling out of place as he does. 

“It’s okay, you know,” Evan finally says, looking over at Billy. “I get it.”

Billy heaves a sigh, taking another long drag from his smoke. He exhales into the still night air, looking up at the stars. He wishes he could tell Evan that it’s not okay, wishes he could apologize like a normal person. Pick up the pieces and keep on chugging, because Evan is kind and generous and he would be willing to do that, if Billy asked.

He doesn’t ask. Instead, Billy smokes his cigarette down to the filter, stomps the lit end out on the ground with the heel of his boot, and asks Evan to take him home.

Evan walks Billy to his door, and they linger in front of it for a beat too long. Evan seems to understand that any meaningful moment has passed, and he gives Billy a wistful smile.

“You can call me anytime,” Evan informs him, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “Whenever you’re ready, if you want to. Take care of yourself, Bill.”

Billy flinches when Evan leans in to kiss him on the cheek. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, hearing Evan sigh softly before stepping off the porch, walking down the driveway to his car. The engine starts a moment later, loud and jarring until Evan pulls off the curb and drives down the street, putting miles of distance between them.

When Billy finally looks up, the street is empty, and the world falls silent. 

“God fucking _damn it_!” Billy shouts into the emptiness of his house, picking up the lamp from beside the couch and heaving it at the television set the moment he walks through the door.

It misses the TV by only an inch or two, shattering against the wall above it. The broken fragments rain down onto the ground, and Billy can’t breathe. His face feels hot, and he knows if he looked in a mirror right now it’d be an angry scarlet hue.

Rage boils in the pit of Billy’s stomach, sharp and visceral and hot enough to burn. He hates this town, he hates this life, but most of all, he hates what he’s done to himself. What he’s gotten himself into. There’s a part of him that says to be kinder to himself, that Steve Harrington pushing and shoving him every which way isn’t his fault.

But there’s another, louder part of him that reminds him that the shit that’s happening to him is a product of the choices he made. Billy could’ve ended this with Steve the moment it started, could’ve saved himself a lot of grief. He knew better, but he went with it anyway. He let Steve tear into him in all the ways he knew would destroy him for good, for all the worst reasons.

The truth is that it boils down to something as simple, something as unbelievably and profoundly pathetic as love.

Before Steve, Billy didn’t dwell much on the idea of love. It was such an abstract concept, too many shades of gray. Billy doesn’t deal in shades of gray. 

Then when Steve came along, he blew all of Billy’s expectations for himself right out of the water with his pretty eyes and soft lips and long legs. In the few short seconds after catching Steve’s eye, Billy came to the conclusion that he was completely and utterly fucked.

And as it turns out, Billy should’ve gone with his instincts rather than letting himself be guided by the way Steve made him feel, his heart going all soft and mushy.

Now he’s living in his own personal brand of hell, and he doesn’t know how to escape. Billy flops onto the couch with a groan, burying his head in his hands. 

The way Billy sees it, he has two options. He can stay here and suffer, or he can finally get out and move on. He thinks about California, about the smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves on the shore. About the way the city seems to sparkle at night, about the way it makes Billy come alive.

About his mother’s kind smile and warm embrace.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, Billy has his duffel bag pulled out from under his bed. He’s nearly done packing when he pauses, something screaming at him to hold on, to think this through.

Billy grits his teeth, shoving the last few articles of clothing into his bag before gathering up his toiletries. 

Fuck thinking things through. He’s sick of Hawkins, he’s sick of Steve, and he’s sick of the person he is when he’s this far from home. From his _real_ home.

Within the hour, Billy has the Camaro loaded up. He slams the trunk shut, turning to look at his house one last time. 

The only time this place ever felt like home was when he was here with Steve, wrapped up in each other and not thinking about what happens after. Billy may have never kissed Steve, or been able to tell him how he felt, or shared anything meaningful with him beyond hookups, but it’s the closest to home he’s ever gotten in this hellhole.

And that’s really fucking pathetic. 

Billy climbs into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him a little violently. He’s peeling out of the driveway a moment later, leaving the dark, empty house in his rearview mirror.

There’s no roadmap, no guidance system, no real sense of direction for him to follow. Billy takes it road by road, his brain supplying him with the road names and directions that he’d memorized in high school. 

Back then it’d been out of necessity, in case he needed to make a quick getaway from Neil in the middle of the night. Now it’s just handy, not having to squint at a map in the dark while driving.

The streets are empty and time feels altered as he drives through the night, the sounds of George Harrison trickling from his speakers. Reality doesn’t fully set in until Billy gets on I-40, finally encountering other cars cruising along to unknown destinations. 

Billy wonders if there’s anyone else on this stretch of interstate that feels the same way he does right now - bitter and alone and torn practically in half. 

He reckons there’s someone out there, driving into the night with heavy eyes and an even heavier heart, just like him.

Indiana turns into Illinois, turns into Missouri, turns into Oklahoma. He stops to rest at a motel in Oklahoma City after nearly eleven straight hours of driving. The pit stop isn’t notable in any way, and Billy doesn’t bother exploring before heading out the next morning. 

New Mexico and Arizona are more interesting to drive through. It’s more desert than Billy has ever seen in his life, but he finds it peaceful. The backroads are empty and he lets himself push the Camaro over 100 miles per hour on a certain stretch of road where he can see for miles, making it easy to avoid any cops that might be speed trapping.

Billy can actually smell the difference in the air when he crosses the border between Arizona and California. There’s a distinct change in humidity, and it smells and tastes faintly of saltwater.

His mom is currently living in part of San Francisco’s bay area. The last time Billy saw her, she was staying at a women’s shelter in the heart of San Francisco. 

She’d written to him after he’d been in Hawkins for a few months to inform him that she’d gotten back on her feet and bought an apartment in Palo Alto. As far as Billy knows, she’s been there ever since.

He’d memorized the address long ago, also out of necessity. Living under the same roof as Neil for so long had him doing a lot of shit out of necessity. Billy always had to be on toes, ready to split at moment’s notice. 

Though, in those cases, he’d always envisioned himself burning rubber on his way out of Hawkins with Max in tow, not leaving in a fit of rage all by himself because of a stupid fucking _guy_.

Now, Billy stands before his mother’s apartment complex, duffel bag in hand. There’s no elevator, so he makes the trek up to the fourth floor using the stairs. He hopes she’s home; he hadn’t exactly called to let her know he was coming. He’d thought about it, but decided against it out of fear that she wouldn’t want him to.

That she wouldn’t want him anymore.

The thought is knocked right out of his head the moment his mother swings open the door, engulfing Billy in the biggest hug she can muster with her tiny body.

“Sweetheart,” she whispers, just standing and holding him like they have all the time in the world. “I’ve missed you.”

Billy doesn’t let the tears fall, but he doesn’t try to stop them from welling up in his eyes, either. “Missed you too, ma.”

He could stand here forever, he thinks, just letting his mom’s presence cure any and all of his sadnesses. His exhaustion has other ideas, however. It hits Billy all at once, and he lets his mother guide him into the apartment. 

There’s a spare bedroom down the hall, and it’s decorated surprisingly similar to his old room in the house he lived in with her and Neil before the divorce. He even recognizes some of his old paintings, the ones he did back when he thought it was possible for someone like him to be an artist. 

When Billy lays down, it feels like the paintings stare at him in accusation.

Just days before they’d moved to Hawkins, he’d donated all of his pencils and brushes to Goodwill with Neil’s _you still painting rainbows and butterflies like some kind of faggot?_ still ringing in his ears.

The memory has something bitter and hot flaring up in Billy’s chest, but he’s too tired to let it fester. Instead, he stretches and yawns, sliding under the covers after slipping out of his shoes.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” is all he hears his mom say before drifting off.

* * *

It’s the smell of coffee that first rouses Billy from his slumber, bleary eyes blinking open slowly. For a moment, he has no idea where he is. Memories of the last few days come back to him in fragments, and he steadily remembers that he’s back home with his mom, having put thousands of miles between himself and his problems.

Billy slips out of bed quietly, grimacing at the feeling of his jeans twisted around his legs after sleeping in them for fuck knows how long. He pads to the dresser adjacent to the bed, pulling open the drawers to find a few scattered items of clothing. He’s pleased to find a pair of gym shorts, shucking his jeans in favor of slipping on the mesh nylon material.

The sunlight filtering through the window above the bed is warm on Billy’s face, and his heart doesn’t feel so heavy.

“Morning, sweetheart,” his mother says when he slips into the kitchen, giving him a warm smile. “Hope you’re in the mood for pancakes.”

Billy peers over her shoulder, mouth watering at the chocolate chip pancakes she’s whipping up. “Looks great, ma.”

Billy plops down at the kitchen table, picking up the steaming mug of coffee waiting for him there. His mom still has the wooden chairs with plaid tie-on cushions that he remembers sitting on as a child, when he’d sit on his knees with his legs tucked beneath him, shoveling mac n’ cheese into his mouth.

She plates their pancakes and sets Billy’s down in front of him, sitting across from him with that same warm smile on her face. They eat quietly for a long stretch, his mother clearly waiting for Billy to say something and Billy trying to figure out the right words but coming up short.

The silence is deafening, hanging over them like a dark cloud.

His mom seems to sense Billy’s discomfort, putting down her fork and sitting back in her seat. She tilts her head to the side as she looks at him. “Alright, I’ll bite. Did something happen with your father?”

Billy’s laugh is unexpected and bitter, and he scowls down at his plate. “Nah. Haven’t seen him in… well, it’s going on about a year now.”

“Good,” she says, seemingly without thinking. Her expression has soured significantly. “I should’ve never let him take you.”

“I never blamed you.” Billy swallows thickly, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking but wanting his mom to know regardless. “This shit, ‘s on him.”

Reaching across the quaint kitchen table, she takes Billy’s hand and squeezes. “Look at you. My sweet boy, all grown up. When did that happen?”

“Must be a small town thing. Probably something in the water,” Billy tells her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Been away from the city for too long.”

They lapse back into silence, chewing on their food quietly. Billy wonders what she’d think about all this shit that’s been going on between him and Steve. 

His mom is one of the few people in this world who knows about him being gay. Billy doesn’t have much to be worried about on that front, but he has this distinct feeling that she’ll be disappointed with what he’s been putting himself through for nearly a year now.

“You don’t have to talk to me about it,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence. “But just know that you can, about anything. Always.”

Billy opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water, the words lodged in his throat. A moment later, he’s spilling his guts like he’s been uncorked. He talks about Hawkins, about Steve, about Evan. 

About running away from it all when it inevitably became too much.

“I knew it was a shit idea,” Billy remarks with a defeated sigh. “Still did it, though.”

The smile his mom gives him this time is just on the side of wistful. “It’s okay to make mistakes. You’re young, you’ll make a lot of them in your life. How you deal with those mistakes is what matters most.”

“Guess I still haven’t figured that part out yet,” Billy mutters. His way of dealing with his mistakes consisted of running halfway across the country to avoid the fallout. 

“We rarely do, but such is life,” she tells him, sighing softly. “Steve may be your first love, but he certainly won’t be your last. It sounds like you’ve already stumbled across another.”

Evan. Right. Billy makes a face, and his mom laughs, loud and bright. Billy can’t help but smile - his mother’s laugh had always been contagious.

“He’s not exactly my type. Too nice. It’s kind of… really annoying, actually.”

“It sounds like he’d be just as good of a friend. Not every relationship has to be a romantic one,” she reminds him. “Although, I wouldn’t discount him just yet. He sounds like he’d be good for you. And from the way you described him, very handsome.”

Billy will give her that one. Evan _is_ ridiculously attractive. But there’s just nothing substantial between them beyond good sex and being able to pal around every now and then. 

She’s right, though. He isn’t obligated to keep sleeping with Evan, or have a relationship with him beyond something friendly. Setting matters of the heart aside, Evan objectively would be a great friend. Already is, if Billy is being honest.

“I think that ship has sailed.” Billy tosses his fork and napkin onto his plate with a huff. “I kind of dicked him over the other day.”

“Second chances,” his mother sing-songs, standing and gathering their empty plates.

She starts to walk to the sink, but Billy stops her, carrying the dishes to the sink himself. His mom pats him on the shoulder appreciatively as he washes the dishes, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his head.

“Follow your heart, honey. It’ll always lead you in the right direction, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now. You’ll always end up right where you need to be.”

Billy’s heart squeezes. He really fucking hopes she’s right.

He spends the next few minutes cleaning up the kitchen while his mother heads back to her room to get ready for whatever she has going on today. Billy figures he can lounge around on the couch for a little while, then head out to the beach. He’s been dying to feel the sand beneath his feet since he crossed the border into California. 

Billy is sprawled out on the couch watching cartoons when his mom reappears, dressed in a nice pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a bun.

“Work?” Billy asks, looking up at her.

She nods. “Another riveting day of secretarial duties. I have an NA meeting after work, but I should be back by seven. I can make us some dinner, or we can do takeout.”

“Sounds good,” he hums. He doesn’t pull away when she bends over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Have a good day at work, ma.”

“My office number is on the pad by the phone, if you need anything.”

Billy hears the front door open a moment later, his mother calling out one last goodbye before exiting the apartment. 

Objectively, he can keep laying here for as long as he wants, at least for today. The last few days have been excruciatingly long and he deserves a day off, in his own personal opinion. 

He makes it through about an hour before he grows restless, nothing on TV capturing his attention long enough to keep him occupied.

Billy wanders around the apartment, looking at all the stuff his mother has accumulated over the years. She only has a few photographs hung on the walls, mostly ones of her and Billy when he was younger. There are a few of her with some people he doesn’t recognize, most likely friends she’s made in recent years.

It feels strange, seeing his mom on this side of her life. A significant portion of it was spent in a drug-induced haze, a product of the abuse she suffered at Neil’s hands. The drugs had been Neil’s reason for leaving, dropping her off at a shelter in downtown San Francisco the same day he found out where all her money had been going.

To this day, Billy can’t comprehend how Neil could’ve left his mother for something so obviously fixable. But he finds himself feeling grateful that it happened, because it meant she got to break free from her abuser and finally start recovering from a long-term opiate addiction. 

Billy lingers in front of the photographs for another minute or so before turning away, moving to browse the bookshelf in the living room. He smiles, just a little bit, when he spots the collection of children’s books his mom used to read to him before bed as a kid. 

She only has a small collection of books - some assorted Stephen King novels and a few classics like _Little Women_ and _Jane Eyre_. Her copy of _The Great Gatsby_ looks to be the most worn book on the shelf, and Billy flips through it, fingers brushing over the worn spine and dog-eared pages.

He can picture his mom curled up on the couch, reading the tragic story of Jay Gatsby with a cup of tea in one hand and the book in her other. Billy hopes there’s at least one rainy day while he’s visiting, because frankly, lounging around with a good book and a warm drink with a thunderstorm raging on in the background sounds like a perfect way to spend a day like that.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t even thought about how long he’s planning on staying. Part of him says forever, but the other, more rational part of him reminds him that he still has a house and a job back in Hawkins. Neither of which Billy cares for, but he still has to get rid of them before he can consider relocating to California for good.

He figures he can give himself a few days. And if he gets fired during that time, then so be it. Billy really couldn’t give less of a shit if he’s screwing Dale over. He sort of hates the fucker, anyway.

There isn’t much else to look at in the apartment, unless Billy wants to go snooping through his mother’s room. Which, he doesn’t. He’s not about to pull a Neil and invade her privacy for no reason, even if she wouldn’t know about it if he did. 

Billy wracks his brain, trying to think of how he used to spend his days in California. The beach is a given, but there’s only so much beach a person can take in one day. He doesn’t even have a surfboard anymore. He’ll need to get a new one at some point, the desire to get out and ride the waves tugging at his insides.

There are three faces Billy associates with long days spent on the beach, surfing it up for as long as physically possible, and that gives him an idea. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, dialing one of the few numbers he knows by heart, drumming his fingers against his thigh as the phone rings. 

“You’ve reached the Millers!”

Billy smiles at the sound of the cheerful, familiar voice. “Hey, Mrs. Miller. It’s Billy Hargrove. Is Richie around? Or Angie?”

“Billy! Oh, it’s so good to hear from you!” Mrs. Miller squawks, her voice going up an octave. “Let me get Rich. Oh, he’ll be so excited to know you’ve called!” Another pause, and then, “ _Richie! Phone!_ ”

The line goes quiet for a moment before it gets picked back up, Richie coughing out what is undoubtedly smoke from a joint before speaking. “Yeah?”

“Rich, it’s Billy,” he says, scratching his head. “Hargrove. I’m, uh. I’m in town for a little while, wanted to see if you and Angie were free today.”

“Oh, shit! Hargrove!” Richie whoops, laughing. “Fuck, it’s been a while. Pretty sure we’re free all week, man. Lisa, too. Wanna meet at the pier?”

Billy nods, before remembering Richie can’t see him. “Yeah, man, sounds good. Meet in 20?”

“Shit yeah! I’ll see you there, dude.”

The pier is a bit farther from his mom’s new apartment than it was from Billy’s childhood home, so he opts to take the Camaro instead of going on foot. He grabs a clean shirt from his duffel bag, deciding to just pair it with the shorts he already has on. Billy shoves his feet into his shoes and grabs his keys before slipping out the door.

Cruising along the coast with his windows down feels nostalgic in a hundred different ways all at once. Billy bobs his head along to Creedence as he drives, one hand stretched out the window, the air rushing through his fingers.

Richie and Angie were both an integral part of Billy’s life throughout the entirety of his childhood, all the way up until he’d moved to Hawkins. They’re twins, practically always attached at the hip; where one is, the other generally isn’t too far behind.

They’d all grown up together, which was inevitable given that they lived right next door to each other. Having all the same favorite shows and snack foods and arcade games helped them forge a strong bond as kids. 

The matching skeletons they had in the closets they all still happened to be in - or were the last time Billy had spoken to them - made it easy to keep their friendship strong even as they grew older and their interests diverged. Billy liking boys, Richie liking both, and Angie only having an eye for the ladies gave them quite a bit to talk about. 

Lisa had been the wildcard, having moved to San Francisco by the time Billy and company were in middle school. She was a small, willowy girl with her head constantly in the clouds, and immediately got branded as the ‘weird animal girl’ by her classmates, due to her tendency to exclusively hang out with squirrels and rabbits and frogs at recess.

Billy had been the only one in his class, aside from Richie and Angie, that was willing to make friends with her. He could listen to Lisa talk for hours, her voice airy and melodic. She always had stories to tell, and Billy would always listen to them with rapt attention.

Richie and Angie had both inevitably fallen for Lisa, but in the end Richie was the person Lisa gravitated towards. They’d started dating just before Billy left for Hawkins, and there’d been a hefty bit of tension lingering in the group afterward. 

Billy assumes they’ve smoothed things over by now, if they’re all willing to hang out together. At least, Billy hopes that’s the case, rather than them just doing it for his sake.

When Billy pulls into the parking lot across the street from the pier, he spots a red ‘81 Firebird and instantly knows it belongs to Richie. 

Richie had wanted a Firebird for as long as Billy could remember, and he’d always talked about it being loud and shiny and bright red. Billy pulls into the parking space next to it, a wave of excitement running through him.

He’s gone a long time without seeing his friends, and it’s nice to know that even after all this time, they’re still willing to welcome him back with open arms.

Billy climbs out of the Camaro and makes his way across the street. The stairs that lead up to the pier are just as old and rickety as they were the last time he was here, squeaking with each of his footsteps.

“Billy!” A cacophony of voices shout the moment he steps onto the pier. Billy squints into the sunlight, seeing the outline of three figures waving maniacally a few yards away.

The trio really don’t look all that different, although Richie’s hair has grown out more, nearly past his shoulders, and Lisa has glasses now, perched on the slope of her little button nose. Angie looks the same as she ever did, her dark hair thick and unruly, framing her face like a halo.

Lisa runs up to him first, giggling. Billy scoops her up and spins her around, and Jesus, he’d almost forgotten how little she is. Richie and Angie stroll over without a moment to spare, Richie pounding Billy’s fist and Angie punching his shoulder. Just like normal.

“Finally got sick of that small-town living, huh?” Angie asks, her lips quirked up into a small half-smile.

Billy shrugs, playfully tugging on one of her curls. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Tell us all about it, man,” Richie urges before taking a bite of the soft pretzel in his hands, continuing to talk as he chews, “we’ve been dying to hear all about the farm.”

“Rich, that’s disgusting,” Billy tells him, wrinkling his nose. He can’t help but laugh, though, because it’s just so _Richie_ \- the familiarity of it strikes him to his core. “And I didn’t live on a fucking farm. There just happened to be cows everywhere for some goddamn reason.”

“Did it smell like cow shit?” Angie asks as they start to walk towards the end of the pier.

“Yeah, couldn’t get away from it even with the windows up.”

They reach the end of the pier, sitting down in a row and dangling their legs over the side. The afternoon sun is high in the sky, and it’s warm on Billy’s face. It reminds him of the long summer days he’d spend with Richie, Angie, and Lisa growing up, surfing or combing the beach for seashells or pounding beers on the pier. 

It feels like home.

“So,” Lisa starts, sounding hesitant. “Did you make any new friends in Indiana? Anyone interesting?”

Billy feels himself deflate, staring out across the ocean and heaving a sigh. “Not really. Kinda the same there as it is here. A few rich assholes and a bunch of average sheep that worship ‘em. Not a whole lot of diversity in personality.”

“So, what you’re saying is you didn’t find any new, cool friends to replace your older, cooler friends,” Richie says, his smile wide and bright. “Smart move.”

“You sure are hard to replace, Rich,” Billy agrees, huffing a laugh. 

Lisa swings her little legs back and forth, reclining back on her elbows so she can tilt her face up towards the sun. “What about someone you liked as _more_ than friends?”

Billy can’t help the way his expression twists into a scowl. The others seem to take note of his shift in mood, and Angie clears her throat awkwardly.

“I guess we know why Billy’s back,” Angie jokes, but it’s weak and tinged with barely-subdued curiosity.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Angie. Billy wouldn’t do something as destructive as drive halfway across the country because of some stupid _boy_. Right, Bill?”

Billy stays quiet, tipping a little further over the pier so he can stare down at the water crashing roughly against the pillars. Lisa stares at him thoughtfully, and Angie casts Richie her trademark _told ya so_ look.

“Ah, shit,” Richie says, his words hanging in the air. “Well, this just got awkward.”

Angie whacks Richie on the shoulder. “God, Rich, do you ever know when to shut up?”

“You don’t have to talk about it, Bills,” Lisa tells him, her voice soft and small.

“Nah, it’s not that, I just…” Billy trails off, sighing. He scrubs a hand over his face, then pinches the bridge of his nose and bites the bullet. “I fell for a straight guy.”

Richie lets out a low whistle. He shakes his head, his dark eyes peering over at Billy. This close, Billy can see the freckles scattered across his nose and he sort of wants to poke at them, just to annoy Richie. Like he used to. 

“That blows,” Angie says, casting Billy a sympathetic look. “I’ve been there, buddy. It’s not a fun time.”

“You’ve fallen for a straight _guy_ , Ange?” Richie snickers, falling over with a laugh when Angie shoves him. “Alright, alright, I’m kidding. Jesus. We all know you like poon, chill.”

Lisa covers her boyfriend’s mouth with her hand. Richie keeps talking, just to be annoying, his voice muffled against Lisa’s palm. He falls silent a moment later, but Lisa keeps her hand in place regardless.

“You really left because of him?” Angie asks after a stretch of contemplative silence. “It got that bad?”

Billy shrugs. “I dunno, it was… it’s complicated.”

“We have time,” Richie interjects eagerly, finally pulling Lisa’s hand from his mouth.

“Unless,” Lisa starts, putting her hand right back, “you don’t want to.”

Angie nods in agreement, and Richie rolls his eyes but nods as well. 

Billy considers letting the subject drop, not wanting to dredge up the bullshit that he ran away from Hawkins to avoid in the first place. But at the same time, he likes the idea of purging it all from his system while his three best friends in the world stand by, quietly listening. 

Besides, if he’s going to be here for a few days, it’s bound to come up again sometime or another and he’d rather just get it out of the way now.

“His name is Steve,” Billy starts, sucking in a breath. His chest tightens when Steve’s name slips from his tongue. “I kind of, um. Fought him? When I first moved to Hawkins. Max ended up stepping in and kicking my ass, though, so I didn’t… I didn’t hurt him permanently or anything.”

No one says anything, but Billy knows they all remember his temper. He’d inherited it from Neil, and despite it being easy to control around the three of them, they knew Billy didn’t always have mastery over it when it came to anyone else. 

“Good for her,” Richie comments after a moment. “Max, I mean. Just ‘cause, you know. She always seemed kinda shy, or whatever.”

“You beat this guy up and then fell in love with him?” Angie asks, her brows knitting together in confusion.

Billy’s smile is only a little bitter. “Yeah, well. Apparently he didn’t take it to heart. He’s the one who propositioned me.”

“Oh _shit_!” Richie says, on the verge of shouting. “So he _does_ like dudes. Or am I missing something?”

“I don’t know what he likes.” Billy shoves a hand through his hair. “He’s the one who always comes to me to hook up. But afterward he goes on and on about how he’s not a fag, then runs off to one of the girls he has on retainer. It’s annoying as shit.”

Lisa pats his shoulder sympathetically. “Sounds like he doesn’t know what he likes, either.”

“I think he knows, but just doesn’t want to admit it,” Angie concludes. “Can you blame him though? I mean, we grew up in one of the biggest cities in the state and people still get shit for being gay. I can’t imagine what it must be like, carrying that weight around in a small, close-minded town.”

“That doesn’t justify what he’s doing to Billy, though,” Richie points out.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Angie agrees. “I’m just saying it sort of… explains some things. You know, small town guy, still in the closet and in even deeper denial about being in there in the first place.”

Billy gnaws on the inside of his cheek, his teeth slotting into the indentations they’ve made from all the chewing he’s been doing these last few days. “I think he’s like you, Rich, but he just… he’s so far removed, he won’t even consider it. And he’s a mouthy little shit too, so it’s not like it’s easy to get him to talk about anything.”

“You mean you think he likes both?” Richie asks, tilting his head to one side.

“Yeah,” Billy nods. “A while ago there was this prissy bitch he was fucking, or dating or whatever. Nancy. He never fucking shut up about that bitch. ‘M pretty sure he was genuinely in love with her.”

“She sounds like a cunt,” Angie says, and Billy knows she only says it to make him feel better. 

It kind of works - just a little bit.

“She was, but she was also kind of a badass. I think I would’ve liked her. Y’know, if things were different.”

Lisa rests her head on Billy’s shoulder, sighing. “Did he go back to her? Is that why you came back here?”

“Nah,” Billy answers, shaking his head. “I was seeing someone else, but Steve just kept… I dunno. Getting in the fucking way. Then shit sort of blew up and I got the hell out of dodge.”

The others go quiet, turning Billy’s words over in their heads. Richie and Angie look thoughtful, while Lisa just looks sad. Billy slings an arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. Lisa always had a tendency to soak up other people’s emotions like a sponge, breaking her own heart without even trying.

“You know what this calls for?” Richie asks, clearly growing bored of the silence. “Drinks. Lots and lots of drinks. We should hit the strip.”

“It’s like, two in the afternoon, Rich,” Angie laughs, but doesn’t shut down the idea completely. 

Richie throws his hands up, shrugging. “Hey, man. Dockside is always open and it’s barely a five minute walk.”

“What the hell,” Billy concedes. “I’m down. Gotta be back by seven, though. Mom’s making dinner or ordering takeout or some shit.”

Lisa whistles, pretending to raise the roof with her little hands. “I’m ready for some drinks, baby! We’ll have you back in time, Bills. We can’t promise you won’t be at least a little drunk, though.”

Billy laughs, taking Richie’s hand and letting him pull him upright. “What’s life if not being just a little drunk all the time?”

“My man!” Richie cheers, clapping Billy on the shoulder as the group makes their way back to the stairs at the opposite end of the pier.

They chatter away on the short walk to Dockside, Richie and Angie continuously growing louder as they try to talk over one another. Lisa lingers in between Richie and Billy, leaning in to whisper in Billy’s ear every now and then when Richie is too busy arguing with Angie to pay attention. 

Dockside is packed, even for the middle of the afternoon, but they manage to flag down the bartender and order a round of drinks. Billy doesn’t even know what they ordered, Richie and Angie having loudly tried to shout two completely different orders at the bartender at the same time.

“To having Billy back,” Richie starts once they get their drinks, “and to running away from our problems!”

The four of them raise their drinks, clinking their glasses together as they parrot Richie’s words. Billy has no idea what’s in his glass, some sort of rainbow-colored cocktail adorned with a little paper umbrella, but he supposes that it doesn’t matter considering that it tastes good and will get him drunk.

Several hours and a multitude of drinks later, Billy and the others stumble down the sidewalk, moderately drunk and laughing at one of Richie’s trademark stories - one that’s most certainly deeply exaggerated and only partially true. It doesn’t matter, though, because Billy’s stomach hurts from laughing and for the first time in a really long time, he feels at peace.

“We should get a cab,” Angie suggests when they make it to the parking lot across from the pier, swaying a bit on her feet.

Billy nods in agreement. “Probably a good idea. We can get a cab back to our cars in the morning.”

“Are we going back to our place or yours?” Richie asks, hiccuping towards the end of his sentence.

“I’ll call mom, see if she’s okay with having you guys over for dinner,” Billy tells him, then turns on his heel, striding across the parking lot to a row of payphones he’d caught sight of.

His mom picks up on the second ring, already home from her NA meeting. Which makes sense, considering how much darker it’d gotten while they were at Dockside. Billy glances at his watch, noting that it’s almost seven. 

“Hey, ma,” Billy says when she answers, slurring only a little. “I’ve been with Richie and Angie. Is it alright if they come by for dinner? Lisa too?”

After his mother’s enthusiastic agreement, Billy lets her know they’re getting a cab back to the apartment and should be home within the next twenty or so minutes. He hangs up with her and grabs the phone book he’d spotted at one of the other booths, thumbing through it in search of a cab company.

The cab ride home sobers Billy up a bit, enough so that he’s buzzed at best when they walk into his mother’s apartment.

“Ma? We’re home!” Billy calls, toeing off his shoes. The others follow suit, despite being crowded together in the doorway.

His mother rounds the corner after a moment, her smile blinding.

“Who do we have here?” she asks, her tone light and teasing.

“Sandy!” Richie shouts, barreling forward to wrap her in a giant bear hug. Angie and Lisa practically knock him out of the way after a moment to take their turn.

Sandy ruffles Billy’s hair when she’s able, laughing softly. “Dinner should be here in a few minutes. Anyone hungry for Chinese?”

“Oh my God, that sounds amazing,” Angie groans, rubbing her stomach. “I’m _starving_. These idiots wouldn’t spend money on anything except drinks.”

“There’s snacks in the pantry, and fruit in the fridge,” Sandy informs her, winking. “Feel free to help yourself. Lisa, you too. As for you boys, you can wait until the food gets here.”

Richie nods solemnly, though his lips twitch ever-so-slightly as he suppresses a smile. “That’s fair.”

Billy snorts, heading into the living room and flopping on the couch. There’s a Jeopardy marathon on, and he rattles off the answers mindlessly. Richie sinks down at the opposite end of the couch, slinging his legs onto Billy’s. 

“Rude,” Billy says, battling Richie’s feet with his own until they’re both snort-laughing and tired, letting their legs settle back down, this time tangled together. It reminds Billy of when they were kids, crammed together on his tiny bedroom couch, playing video games for hours on end. 

The food arrives a little while later, and Billy scoots over on the couch so his mom can sit. Angie and Lisa sit together on the squashy armchair adjacent to the couch, Lisa’s body small enough that there’s a little extra room for both of them to stretch out. They watch Jeopardy as they eat, Richie shouting out wildly incorrect answers, Billy following them up with his own smug corrections.

Billy wolfs down his Mongolian beef and fried rice, then exchanges the empty takeout containers for a fortune cookie. He grabs one at random, then passes the bag to the others. 

“ _Adventure can be real happiness_ ,” Richie reads through a mouthful of cookie. “How the hell is that a fortune?”

“Adventure _can_ be real happiness. It can be found anywhere, so long as you know where to look,” Sandy hums, nodding. 

Richie snorts, then shrugs. “I think I like your version better, Sandy.”

Billy cracks his cookie, munching on one half of it absentmindedly as he unfolds his fortune. “ _A fresh start will put you on your way_. Huh.”

Something stirs inside of him at the words. A fresh start. It’s what Billy needs - it’s the entire reason he came back to California in the first place. He wonders, fleetingly, if it’s a sign. If this means wrapping up his life in Hawkins and relocating back to California permanently is the path he’s truly meant to take.

“Shit just got real,” Angie says after a moment, breaking the stretch of silence that followed Billy’s fortune.

There’s a pause, and then Billy’s launching a couch pillow across the room at her with a cackle. It bounces off her face and lands in her hands, at which point she launches it back at him, huffing a laugh. It ends up hitting Richie upside the head instead, pulling a soft _oof_ from his lips.

It’s an all-out pillow fight from there, Billy and Richie uniting against Sandy, Lisa, and Angie. Billy’s pretty sure all the running and shrieking they’re doing in his mother’s fourth-floor apartment is more than a little annoying for the neighbors, but he’s having too much fun to care. 

He could spend every day just like this, surrounded by the people he loves - the very same people who love him back just as much. At this point, Hawkins feels like a distant memory, like a bad dream Billy just needed to wake up from. Like a hellish nightmare that fades from his memory the longer he’s awake.

Right now, it doesn’t matter that it’s not. It doesn’t matter that the shit Billy has gotten himself into is still there, lurking in the back of his mind and waiting to welcome him with open arms at the end of his stay in California. 

For now, Billy allows himself to forget.

* * *

The week passes in slow-motion while it’s happening, but at the end Billy feels like it was all a blur. His days were filled with surfing with his friends, hanging out around town with his mother, going on mini road trips along the golden coast, and taking a lot of time to tan on the beach, baking himself under the hot California sun.

Standing in front of his mother’s apartment building two short mornings ago, saying goodbye to her as she tried to pretend like she wasn’t crying, felt like a small eternity ago. 

Richie, Angie, and Lisa had been there too, tugging him in for lingering hugs before pulling away and reminding him not to be a stranger.

Now, Billy stands in the doorway of his house in Hawkins, staring into the darkness with a look of distaste. 

This place isn’t home anymore, now that he’s had a small taste of California again. Not that it ever felt like home in the first place - but Billy feels even more out-of-place in it now, like it’s just been solidified that he truly doesn’t belong here after all. He thinks back to the fortune he’d pulled from his cookie: _a fresh start will put you on your way_.

It’s then that Billy recognizes that he’s officially made his decision: he’s moving back to California, for good. He crosses the threshold and makes his way to the living room, tossing his duffel bag onto the ground before grabbing a pencil and pad of paper off the desk in the corner of the room.

Billy plops down onto the couch, starting to write out the list of arrangements he’ll need to make before he can rent a U-Haul and make the permanent journey back to California. He’s deep in writing down the necessary preparations, his brow furrowed in concentration, when the phone rings.

Billy looks up in surprise, momentarily startled before heaving himself off the couch and wandering into the kitchen. He grabs the phone off the hook with a sigh, leaning back against the wall lazily. 

“Yeah?” he answers, sounding bored already even to his own ears. 

Phone calls are the worst, sue him.

For a moment, no one says anything. After a few beats, Billy figures it’s a prank call and moves to hang the phone back up. 

And then, just before he places the phone back on the hook, “hey, it’s me.”

Steve’s voice filtering through the speaker has Billy’s heart stuttering in his chest. A pathetic sort of excitement laced with the rage-tinged irritation Billy always feels when he hears from Steve washes through him, leaving him feeling both hot and cold simultaneously.

“Fascinating,” Billy retorts, trying to mask the way his voice wavers just so. “What do you want?”

“You’re back,” is all Steve says, sounding breathless. “I- I’ve been calling. You haven’t been at work. I was just- you know.”

Billy’s eyes nearly roll all the way back into his head. “No, I don’t know. Do you need something in particular, Harrington? Or do you just like to hear yourself talk?”

There’s another brief pause, and then Steve clears his throat. “I, uh. I just wanted to know if… just- can I come over?”

Normally, Billy would be mildly amused at Steve stumbling over his words, but he’s too taken aback at Steve asking if he can come over in the first place to pay it any mind. Never once, not one single time since they started this, has Steve asked Billy if he can come over. He always just shows up unannounced, much to Billy’s chagrin.

It’s so startling that for the first time in a long time, Billy has no idea what to say. Normally, he can at least come up with something to spit out on the fly, generally something cruel or mocking. But right now, Billy is struggling to string two words together, his mouth opening and closing rapidly.

“Fine,” he finds himself saying, the word slipping from his lips before he can stop himself. 

Billy doesn’t wait for Steve to answer before hanging up, feeling incredibly out-of-sorts. He turns on his heel, walking back to his bedroom to change. It feels like there’s a fog hanging over his brain, everything hazy. 

Coming to a grinding halt in the doorway of his bedroom, Billy stares at his bed in mild confusion. It’d been made up before he left - he always makes his bed in the mornings. A habit he’d picked up after living with Neil, knowing what sort of reaction he’d get from his father if he came home and saw Billy’s bed unmade.

Instead of the nice, neat way Billy had left it, the covers are rumpled and his sheets are disordered and tangled, like someone had been sleeping there in his absence. 

There’s only one other person who has a key to his house.

The discarded pair of Ray Bans and half-smoked pack of Camels lying on Billy’s nightstand confirms what Billy already knew was true - Steve has been sleeping in his bed. Because Billy doesn’t wear Ray Bans, and he sure as fuck doesn’t smoke Camels. 

Steve Harrington, on the other hand, most certainly does. 

Billy is still frozen in place when he hears the front door open and shut, signaling Steve’s arrival. He’s still standing there when Steve makes his way down the hall, coming to a steady halt behind him.

“Billy? What are you… oh.”

He turns to look at Steve, brows nearly at his hairline. “You slept here?”

“Uh,” Steve starts and immediately pauses, scratching his head. “Yeah, sort of. I was just… you weren’t here, and I hadn’t heard from you, so I was just… I don’t know.”

Billy wants to hear the _I missed you_ in Steve’s words, but he refuses to let himself go down that road. He knows where it leads him. Even if Steve did actually miss him, it’s not in the way Billy wants. Steve didn’t miss _him_ , just the convenient dick supply Billy provides for him with rather pathetic regularity.

“What, your bed isn’t good enough? Figured mommy and daddy would shell out the big bucks to put King Steve up in something nice,” Billy sneers, finally moving from the spot he’d been standing in and crossing the room to put some distance between them.

It’s pointless, because Steve follows him anyway.

“Got kicked out,” Steve tells him, and Billy opens his mouth to question that but Steve just shakes his head, moving closer to Billy until he’s all up in his space. 

For a moment, Billy thinks Steve is going to kiss him. Billy takes a step back, the backs of his legs making contact with the bed. “Wha- ”

“Don’t ask,” Steve mumbles, cutting him off and crowding back in. Then, he’s nosing along Billy’s throat in a way he never has before, sending Billy’s pulse skyrocketing. “Doesn’t matter. Wanna fuck you.”

Time slows down, and Billy feels like he’s been submerged in several feet of water. “You… what did you just say?”

“Wanna fuck you,” Steve repeats, burying his face in Billy’s hair. There’s a hint of liquor on his breath, and Billy knows he should tell him to go home.

He doesn’t. 

“Can’t stop thinking about it,” Steve continues, his breath hot against Billy’s ear. “About you.”

Steve still hasn’t kissed Billy, and with the way he’s avoiding Billy’s lips, it’s safe to assume he isn’t going to. But he wants to fuck Billy and that’s - that’s enough, right?

Billy tells himself that it is, that it has to be, as he lets Steve push him back onto the bed, straddling his hips with a determined look in his eye. It has to be enough, because Billy knows that realistically, this is all he’s going to get. 

“You even know what you’re doing?” Billy asks, his breath hitching when Steve’s hands make their way under his shirt, fingers cold against Billy’s overheated skin.

Steve dips down and presses his lips to Billy’s throat, and suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore if he knows what the fuck he’s doing or not. Billy lets his eyes slide shut, both hands grabbing onto Steve’s shoulders. Holding on for dear life. 

“D’you have Vaseline or something?” Steve murmurs against Billy’s neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat. 

There’s nothing Billy wants more than to feel Steve’s lips against his, but he isn’t going to push the idea. It’s a wonder Steve is kissing any part of him at all, considering the most they’ve ever done is go down on one another or give each other quick handjobs in whatever dark corner they can find. 

Gentle touches, kissing, cuddling - it’s all been off limits. Now, Steve’s hitting two of those at once, pressing kisses along Billy’s jaw while his hands rove over Billy’s chest beneath his shirt, his touch featherlight. 

“There’s lube in my nightstand,” Billy manages to choke out, arching into Steve’s touch. “But you can’t just… y’know, not right away- ”

“I know what to do,” Steve interjects huffily. “There’s, like… magazines. Whatever, just get the shit, will you?”

Billy rolls his eyes as Steve crawls out of his lap and sprawls out onto his back. Billy sits up, leaning over towards his nightstand and yanking open the drawer. He digs around for a moment before retrieving the bottle of lube and a condom, tossing them both over to Steve.

Steve stares at the bottle, his brows furrowed. “This is almost empty.”

“Yeah,” is all Billy says, not feeling the need to explain that Steve’s dick isn’t the only one with interest in him. “There’s enough, don’t worry.

“Not really what I was worried about,” Steve mutters, his tone laced with something that sounds a lot like jealousy, but doesn’t push it. 

Flopping back against his pillows, Billy spreads his arms, looking at Steve expectantly. “Well? Show me what you’ve got, Harrington.”

For a moment, Steve hesitates, staring at the lamp on the nightstand that Billy didn’t bother turning off. It’s late evening, so the sun has nearly set and the light from the lamp is the only source in the room.

“Can you turn that off?” Steve asks quietly, and Billy can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

Billy rolls his eyes. “If you’re gonna stick your dick in my ass, you should at least be comfortable with seeing it.”

Steve opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but hesitates, letting it fall shut a moment later. He’s clearly not going to budge, so Billy heaves a sigh, rolling his eyes as he leans over to switch off the light. The room is immediately cloaked in darkness, and Billy can only see the barest hint of Steve’s outline as he crawls toward him.

The feeling of Steve’s hands on Billy’s hips makes him jump. Billy blinks rapidly, Steve’s face finally made visible through the darkness. He’s kneeling between Billy’s legs, scooting down until he’s lying flat before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Billy’s pants. Steve takes a deep breath before slowly tugging them down.

Billy lifts his hips, letting Steve pull both his pants and underwear off in one go. He sits up for a moment to strip himself of his shirt. 

“Those magazines helping you out yet?” Billy asks after a beat, smirking down at Steve. 

Just as anticipated, Steve’s expression sours. He doesn’t waste another moment, taking Billy’s half-hard cock in his dry palm and giving it a few rough strokes. It punches a moan out of Billy, and he balls up his comforter in his hands. 

“Don’t be a dick,” Steve snarks, spitting on his palm and returning it to Billy’s cock, working him over until he’s fully hard.

Billy sucks in a breath, laughing a little breathlessly. “Then shut up and do something with mine already.”

As if he were waiting for the invitation, Steve ducks his head and swallows Billy down nearly to the hilt. Billy’s hands fly to Steve’s hair, threading his fingers through it - careful not to pull on it, always careful not to pull. 

Steve bobs his head, hollowing his cheeks on the downstroke. Billy’s cock bumps the back of his throat, and Steve swallows around the intrusion with ease. 

“Fuck, _yeah_ , just like that,” Billy groans, low in his throat. His hips twitch, refraining from bucking up into the wet heat of Steve’s mouth. 

When Billy’s hands curl tighter into Steve’s hair, Steve pulls his mouth off of Billy with a wet pop. “Fucking pull it already, goddamn.”

“What?” Billy asks, his voice rough. 

Steve exhales harshly through his nose, sliding his tongue along the length of Billy’s cock. Lapping at the pre-cum beading at the tip, Steve gives Billy an expectant look. “My hair? Quit being such a pussy and _pull_.”

Billy just stares at him through the darkness, bewildered. How many times has Steve reprimanded Billy for pulling his hair? For messing up supposed ‘hours of styling’? Billy lost count a long time ago. He feels like he’s entered some sort of blissful fever dream, one where Steve is finally letting him do all of the things he’s always wanted to without objection. 

“What happened to the no sex-hair thing?” Billy blurts, still hyper-aware of Steve’s tongue lapping lazily at his dick, little kitten-licks that send shivers cascading down Billy’s spine. 

“Doesn’t matter, don’t live at home anymore,” Steve explains, as if that’s supposed to make sense to Billy somehow.

Then, he’s sucking Billy back into his mouth, sinking down until his nose brushes the carefully groomed thatch of hair surrounding his dick. The strangled moan that Billy emits doesn’t even sound like it comes from him, foreign to his own ears. 

Mostly because until today, until _this_ , sounds were also off-limits for the most part. Too much paranoia on Steve’s end about getting caught, even in the safety of Billy’s own home. 

Tonight, however, Steve doesn’t seem to have that same concern. Maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s just because Billy’s dick is in the way and Steve can’t voice his concerns. Either way, Billy isn’t going to question it. Steve’s mouth feels like heaven, and his name falls from Billy’s tongue like a prayer.

“Steve - _fuck_ ,” Billy whines, his hips rocking up. “I need - _Jesus_ \- I need more.”

Steve doesn’t let up, swirling his tongue around the head of Billy’s cock as if Billy hadn’t said a word. Billy’s brain is mostly offline at this point, but he wonders vaguely if he’d even said the words out loud, or if it’d just come out as a series of broken moans. 

It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that Steve is patting around the bed in search of the lube at the same time that he’s sucking him off, clearly in an attempt to not break the rhythm. A moment later, Steve pulls off with a frown, keeping one hand wrapped around the base of Billy’s dick.

“Where the fuck…” Steve trails off, looking mildly irritated at the interruption. “Did you shove the fucking bottle up your ass? Where the fuck did it go?”

“Are you always this mouthy in bed?” Billy asks, rolling his eyes. It takes half a second of searching for him to come up with the bottle of lube, tossing it in Steve’s general direction. 

Steve catches the bottle easily, fixing Billy with a glare. “You’ve been sleeping with me for like, a year now and you’re just now figuring that out?”

“Wasn’t aware we’d ever slept together before.”

“You know what I meant,” Steve mutters, avoiding Billy’s accusing stare, busying himself with squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers instead.

Steve uses his elbows to spread Billy’s thighs further apart, and Billy considers pulling his legs to his chest and sticking his asshole right in Steve’s face just to make him squirm. But he doesn’t, instead letting Steve position him to his liking. 

He shivers at the first touch of Steve’s finger against his hole, the digit cold and slick with lube. It’s just a light brush of his fingers, Steve seeming to hesitate for a moment before prodding at the delicate ring of muscle.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Steve breathes, sounding almost transfixed. 

Billy had slung an arm over his face, intent on just laying back and enjoying the feeling of Steve’s hands exploring this part of him for the first time, but in the end he can’t help but lift his arm up to peer down at him. Steve looks mesmerized, and Billy kind of wishes there was even the slightest possibility of Steve being interested in eating him out.

Steve coats Billy’s hole with the excess lube dripping from his fingers before carefully pressing the tip of his index finger inside. There’s not as much resistance as Billy would’ve anticipated, given that it’s been several weeks since the last time Evan fucked him. 

The thought of Evan has Billy wrinkling his nose involuntarily, a displeased grunt slipping out before he can stop it. 

Steve looks up, concerned. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” Billy says immediately, running a hand through Steve’s hair soothingly. “But you don’t have to be so careful. ‘S not like I’m a virgin.”

The words hang heavy in the air, Steve looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Billy can’t stand the quiet, opting to push himself down onto hand to break the silence. He hisses at the feeling of Steve’s finger sliding into him, his toes curling.

“God, you look…” Steve trails off, staring at his finger buried in Billy’s ass like it’s something holy. 

Steve blinks a moment later, shaking his head as if to snap himself out of his reverie. 

Billy kind of wants to know what Steve was going to say, but then Steve is adding a second finger and any remaining sense he has left goes flying out the window.

At first, it’s Billy doing all the work, pushing himself down on Steve’s fingers, breathless little moans slipping from his lips. Steve is frozen in place, almost like he’s in a trance - until he isn’t. He shifts so he can get his mouth back on Billy’s cock, leaving himself enough room to comfortably thrust his fingers at the same time.

The angle is off and Steve’s rhythm is uneven, but Billy is still worried he might bust right then and there, the feeling of Steve’s mouth on him combined with the drag of his fingers almost too much to handle. 

Billy is acutely aware that he’s crying out Steve’s name like a bitch in heat, and yet he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Yeah, fuck me open, c’mon,” Billy pants, grinding down on Steve’s fingers in time with his thrusts. 

A moan tumbles from Steve’s lips at Billy’s words, vibrating along Billy’s cock. Billy’s eyes roll back at the feeling, the breath rushing from his lungs completely when Steve adds a third finger. He cants his hips back onto them, skin glistening with sweat from the exertion. Billy fucks himself down until Steve’s fingers slide in and out with ease, any remaining resistance melting away.

Steve pulls his mouth off of Billy’s dick, his lips puffy and glistening with spit. “Think you’re ready for me?”

Billy nods aggressively, whining at the feeling of Steve’s fingers leaving his body a moment later. It occurs to him, rather quickly, that Steve is still fully fucking dressed.

“You just fingered me with your coat on,” Billy says, looking at Steve in mild disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Oh, what, like it got in the way somehow?” Steve grumbles, stripping off said coat, followed by his shirt and jeans. 

Steve hesitates when he’s down to his boxers, staring down at Billy like it’s the first time he’s really seen him all evening. 

Billy stares right back, questioning, before ultimately deciding to sit up and hook his fingers into Steve’s waistband. He slides the boxers from Steve’s hips without breaking eye contact, his own breath caught up in his throat by the sheer intimacy of the act.

Kind of fucked up that they’ve shared a moment as intimate as this, but Steve still hasn’t kissed him.

“Missed this,” Billy says, his voice hushed. He practically buries his face in Steve’s crotch, breathing in the scent of him. If Steve thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment on it. “Missed you.”

That finally has Steve reacting. He shoves Billy back, somehow gentle and rough at the same time, draping himself over Billy like a blanket. Billy can feel the heavy weight of Steve’s cock against his thigh, and he rocks his hips up into it.

“Jesus,” Steve whispers, his eyes falling shut. 

And his mouth is right there, so pink and kissable. Billy considers closing the distance, wondering if it even matters at this point, but he waits a moment too long and then the time for him to do it has passed. 

Because then Steve is sitting up, snatching the condom off the bed and tearing it open. He rolls it onto himself with a hiss, his cock hard and leaking, curving up towards his stomach.

Steve slicks himself up with the remainder of the lube, positioning himself back between Billy’s thighs.

“Ready?”

“Would you quit asking me that and fuck me already?” Billy asks, but there isn’t any bite to his words like he’d intended. 

Steve just grunts in response, rolling his eyes, then pushes forward. 

The guttural moan Billy releases as Steve starts to sink inside of him sounds utterly gut-punched and wrecked, and Billy knows instantly that he’s not going to last very long. Which is fine, because it looks like it’s taking all of Steve’s willpower not to cum right then and there.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve whines once he’s bottomed out, his arms trembling where they’re bracketed on either side of Billy’s head. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah? Fuck me then, pretty boy,” Billy quips, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist.

Steve preens at the pet name, rocking his hips forward with a stuttered moan. Billy’s sharp intake of breath has Steve pausing, but Billy just pulls Steve in closer, urging him on by tightening his legs around his waist.

“You’re not gonna hurt me.”

Steve buries his face into the space where Billy’s shoulder meets his neck, breathing deep. Then, he’s pulling out as much as he can in this position before surging forward again. The position they’re in doesn’t leave much room to move around, but Billy doesn’t care because Steve is so close to him, pressed chest-to-chest. Steve grinds his hips, torturously slow, and Billy goes boneless.

“I’m not - _shit_ \- ‘m not gonna last long,” Steve chokes out.

Billy shakes his head, not really knowing what he’s trying to convey in doing so. “Don’t care. Just- don’t stop.”

They move together in tandem, Billy’s cock grinding against Steve’s stomach. The friction leaves him struggling to breathe, tangling his hands in Steve’s hair in search of something to hold onto. When Steve shifts, rolling his hips at a new angle, he finds that spot deep inside of Billy that has him seeing stars. 

Billy cries out at the feeling, his hips pushing down in search of more. Steve seems to catch on, rocking purposefully into that spot, pushing himself up onto his hands just enough so he can watch Billy.

“Look at you,” Steve breathes, getting this awestruck look on his face that almost makes Billy want to cry.

Instead, Billy grabs Steve’s ass, urging him to pick up the pace. Steve fucks into him harder, aiming for his prostate with each movement. Billy’s hurtling towards the edge even faster than anticipated, his dick twitching every time it brushes against Steve’s sweat-slicked skin.

Billy gets a hand around himself, stroking his cock in time with Steve’s thrusts. They’re becoming more and more erratic, and Billy knows Steve is close. 

When Steve’s eyes meet Billy’s, Billy is all but shoved over the edge. He cums in thick spurts across both of their stomachs, his own orgasm taking him by surprise. Billy goes limp, feeling like he’s suspended in time, just riding the wave. 

“ _Steve_ ,” is all Billy can manage, his voice barely a breathy whisper. He can feel Steve’s hair sliding through his fingers, the feeling of Steve’s breath puffing against his neck, the slick slide of their bodies against one another.

A moment later, Steve’s hips stutter once, twice, and then he’s burying himself as deep inside of Billy as he can get. He cums with Billy’s name mindlessly spilling from his lips, his whole body shivering with the force of it.

Steve collapses on top of Billy when he comes down, still buried deep but not seeming to care. Billy combs his hands through Steve’s sweaty hair, humming his satisfaction. 

It feels like hours pass before Steve finally moves, pushing himself up and off of Billy with a grunt. Billy squirms when his cock slips out of him, leaving him feeling uncomfortably empty. Steve discards the condom somewhere next to the bed, and Billy makes a mental note to smack Steve for that later. 

Right now, though, Billy just wants to lay here with him. Steve collapses onto his back next to Billy, still breathing hard.

“That was amazing,” Steve says, the first one to break the silence. “Remind me why we haven’t done that before?”

Something acidic blossoms in the pit of Billy stomach and he purses his lips, rolling over onto his front. Toying with the hair on Steve’s chest, Billy just shrugs, not wanting to ruin the afterglow with bitterness.

“Dunno,” Billy lies, not meeting Steve’s gaze.

He knows. Of _course_ he knows. Steve hasn’t let them get past arm’s length until tonight, his adamant refusal to accept this integral part of himself ripping open a cavernous distance between them. Billy supposes he should be grateful that they’ve managed to close the amount of distance they have tonight. It’s the little things, after all.

They rest in comfortable silence and for a stretch, things are good. Peaceful. 

Until they aren’t.

Billy glances up, unable to look away from Steve for long. His lips are right there for the taking, and Billy goes for it. 

At the first touch of their lips, Steve’s eyes fly open. He shoves Billy away from him with confused grunt, looking like he’s just been slapped.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve asks, his eyes wide and cheeks red. 

Disaster was evidently looming on the horizon, and Billy has clearly just launched them both headfirst into it. He feels the dread settle inside of him like an anchor, his stomach turning.

“What most people do after they fuck?” Billy supplies, refusing to back down this time.

If this is how Steve wants to handle things, then so be it. Billy isn’t playing this fucking game with him anymore, not after tonight. Not after he just gave himself to Steve in the most intimate way he possibly could.

“I’m not a fucking faggot,” Steve snaps, and the words are like a sucker punch to the teeth. Billy feels like he might be sick.

“Your dick was just fully inserted in my asshole. That tells a different story, sweetheart.”

Steve recoils from Billy like he’s been burned, scrambling to push himself off the bed. “Don’t- don’t call me that. I’m not- I don’t- I can’t do this. I have to… I have to go.”

Billy watches Steve tug his clothes on haphazardly, dumbfounded. It’s like getting whiplash, having Steve next to him, blissed out and relaxed one moment and spiraling into a full-blown _I’m not gay_ meltdown the next. 

Objectively, Billy really should’ve seen it coming.

“If you leave right now, you better leave that key because you’re not coming back inside this house,” Billy tells him, his voice eerily calm.

Steve freezes for a moment, looking at Billy like he doesn’t get it. Like he’s stupid enough to still not know what the issue is. Then he gets this look in his eye while he searches Billy’s face, this look like he’s finally put the pieces together.

“I’m…” Steve trails off, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I can’t do this, I’m- I’m sorry.”

Steve disappears out the door not even a minute later, leaving his key to Billy’s house lying on the dresser.

* * *

Billy leans over the Pontiac he’s been working on, bored nearly to tears by a task as mundane as changing a car’s oil. 

He put his two weeks’ notice in nearly a week and a half ago, and broke his lease around the same time. Billy’s almost at the finish line now, with only five days to go. Five more days to clear out of his house, five more days to say his goodbyes to the hellhole that is Hawkins, Indiana before he’s officially California-bound.

His mother had been generous enough to offer him the spare bedroom in her apartment, a place to stay just until he can get back on his feet. She’d actually insisted that he stay as long as he likes, but Billy feels like he’s already going to be in the way enough as it is. 

It’s his full intention to stay with his mom for only a few short weeks, until he can save up enough money to get an apartment of his own.

This last paycheck from the auto shop should help immensely, given the amount of hours he’s worked since - well. Since _That Night_ 2.0, as he’s opting to call it. Billy has been practically breaking his back at the shop, throwing himself into his work to avoid falling down a hole of depression and misery.

Has it worked? Not really. But he’s still out here chugging along, doing the best that he can, and right now that’s all he can do.

“Hargrove!” His boss shouts, and Billy turns to look at him with a scowl. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Billy sighs, standing upright and wiping his hands on his oil rag. He figures it’s Evan, given that he had called him last night and left a message, letting him know that he’s moving soon and won’t be around much longer. It was more a courtesy call than anything, not wanting to just leave the guy hanging with no explanation. 

But if Evan did, in fact, drive all the way over here just to say goodbye, Billy wouldn’t be surprised. Because Evan is a decent person and more than willing to do nice things like that.

What Billy doesn’t expect to see, in any way, shape, or form, is Steve Harrington, standing in the lobby of the shop looking like a complete trainwreck.

Billy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Steve look so bad. He’s paler than usual, looking washed out and tired. The dark bags ringing his eyes don’t look much better. They’re stark in contrast to the paleness of his skin, and for a brief moment Billy allows himself to feel concerned.

Dale doesn’t linger around to see what they have to talk about, choosing instead to shut himself in the back office for a nap. 

“Do I even want to know what you’re doing here?” Billy asks after a stretch, folding his arms across his chest.

Steve hangs his head in what appears to be shame, shrugging halfheartedly. “Want a smoke?”

He’s holding a pack of Camels in his hand, and he knows Billy hates Camels, but Billy can see it for what it is: a peace offering. 

Billy just nods once, gesturing for Steve to follow him into the garage. 

They stand in silence while they light up, Billy waiting for Steve to gather the courage to say whatever it is that’s weighing on his mind. Steve slumps against the car Billy had just been working on once his cigarette is lit, slipping his lighter back into his pocket.

“I get it now,” Steve starts, then pauses, biting his lip. “What I’ve been doing to you. And I’m- I’m just really fucking sorry.”

Billy just stares at him, taken aback. It’s not exactly what he’d been expecting to hear - but then again, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting to hear to begin with.

“That’s, um… thank you?” Billy says, the words sounding more like a question than a statement. 

Steve falls silent, staring out at the parking lot with a forlorn expression, taking a long drag off his cigarette. “My friend Robin says that I’m, um. Whaddya call it? When you like… want to be with, y’know. Girls _and_ guys?”

Billy feels like he’s just been flung out into the dead center of uncharted territory. A conversation about Steve’s sexuality isn’t something he thought would be in the cards for himself today.

“Bisexual?” Billy suggests gently.

Why he’s being gentle, he doesn’t know. Steve fucked him over in one of the worst ways possible, leaving Billy bedridden for nearly a week straight after his untimely exit. He hadn’t been able to do much besides lay there and stew in his misery, sick and tired and nursing an incredibly broken heart.

It wasn’t until he was going on nearly three days of no sleep that Billy started having some concern for himself, calling his mother and sobbing to her on the phone in a way he hadn’t done since he was a child. That was the conversation where they’d decided it’d be best for him to move back home with her and get away from Hawkins, and all its inhabitants.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice soft. He’s taken to staring vacantly at his shoes. “I couldn’t… it was too much. To face it, I mean. I still don’t really… know what to do with it.”

“You don’t have to do shit with it. Not if you don’t want to.”

Steve’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “I wish that were an option. I can’t get away from it, no matter how hard I try. It’s always there, like a fucking shadow.”

The words remind Billy of himself, many moons ago, when he was first grappling with his own sexuality. He’d been just a kid, but the hatred for himself was still there. It ran so deep that he never thought he’d find a way to escape it.

But Billy had his friends. He had Richie, and Angie, and Lisa. Three kids in the exact same boat. The four of them together had learned how to accept themselves, because they knew that no matter what, they’d always have each other. 

Steve, on the other hand, has had no one. And that’s the biggest difference. Because while Billy learned how to step outside of his hatred for himself, Steve just spiraled deeper into it throughout the entirety of his life, all the way into adulthood. Billy has no idea what it must be like, trying to understand such a thing all by himself. 

Clearly, his friend Robin has been of assistance, but Billy has a feeling that Steve didn’t start receiving said assistance until recently. 

“Hating yourself for being who you are is a hard habit to kick,” Billy tells him, puffing on his cigarette and exhaling into the stagnant air. “But it’s not impossible. The first thing you gotta realize is that you’re not a bad person just because of who you’re attracted to.”

“I don’t know if I even hate myself anymore,” Steve says, sounding very small and inexplicably young. “I’m just tired. And I feel like I ruined things. With you, I mean. Forever.”

Billy wishes he had the willpower to tell Steve that he did. That there’s no coming back from this, that Billy may be willing to move past the bullshit, but things will never go back to the way they were. 

The sad truth is, Billy doesn’t want to do or say any of that. He still _wants_ with every fiber of his being, wants Steve so badly that his body aches with it. It’s heavily weighted and ever-present, the way it always has been.

“It’s not a good idea,” he starts, biting his lip, “starting this shit again. But I’m- I know if you were to say you wanted me, right here right now, my first instinct wouldn’t be to say no.”

Steve looks over at him, something unreadable swimming in his eyes. It’s almost like he’s wavering back and forth between two potential decisions, practically tearing himself in half with the effort. Billy can’t help him with this, though. Steve has to make the decision for himself, because otherwise, it’ll just be the same old song and dance.

“How can you still want it?” Steve asks, his voice nearly inaudible. “How can you still want me? After what I did?”

Billy gives a humorless laugh in response, taking his turn to stare out across the parking lot with a wistful smile. He doesn’t know if he has an answer for either of those questions. In truth, he should hate Steve. The guy has jerked him around for nearly a year now, crushing his heart to smithereens every chance he could get.

But his mother’s voice rings in the back of his mind, soft yet strong. _Second chances_. She’d meant with Evan, but Billy has this funny feeling that if he were to ask her, she’d say the exact same thing in regards to Steve.

“Everyone does bad shit,” Billy says eventually, sighing heavily. “Doesn’t always make us bad people. And I don’t think you’re a bad person. A bit of a dick, yeah. But not bad.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again, hesitating. “I don’t… I don’t know what that means. Are you saying you forgive me?”

“I don’t know about forgiveness just yet. But I’m willing to work on it,” Billy tells him, pausing for a moment to brace himself. “Together. If you want.”

There’s this brief moment where Steve looks like he might high-tail it right out of the garage without another word. Hell, Billy half expects him to do it. But then Steve is shoving himself off the Pontiac, flicking his now unlit cigarette out of the garage. He closes the distance between them in two long strides and kisses Billy square on the mouth.

It’s not great, not at first. Billy’s still half-frozen, not sure if this is real, if this is actually happening. And Steve had smashed their lips together just a bit too forcefully, practically headbutting him. 

But once Billy can get himself to move, to react, he drops his own cigarette and grabs the lapels of Steve’s jacket, hauling him in closer. Steve’s lips go soft and pliant beneath his, but he still gives just as much as he gets. Steve kisses him like his life depends on it, like this moment might melt away if he’s not careful, and Billy is dizzy with it.

Steve threads his fingers into Billy’s curls, and Billy’s acutely aware that it’s the first time he’s ever done it this gently. He relaxes into Steve’s touch immediately, kissing him once, twice, three times before pulling back, his smile dopey and soft.

“Wow, okay,” Steve says, clearing his throat, his cheeks tinged pink. “You’re really good at that.”

“I know,” Billy says immediately, and there’s a pause before they’re both laughing, both of their shoulders shaking with the force of it.

Steve sobers first, tipping forward and resting his head on Billy’s shoulder with a sigh. “Thanks. For not telling me to fuck off, I mean. I was really worried you might do that.”

“Thought about it,” Billy admits, winding his arms around Steve easily. “Don’t think I could’ve done it, though, even if I really wanted to.”

The sound of a loud crash in the lobby has Steve leaping back, looking mildly panicked. He gives Billy an apologetic look once he realizes what he’s done, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry. I’m just… I gotta get used to it.”

Billy gives him a comforting smile, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. We don’t have to broadcast anything to the world just yet.”

Steve nods, visibly relaxing. “I guess you gotta get back to work at some point. Do you want me to come over to your place later? I can bring food and crappy movies.”

The idea sounds fantastic, and Billy opens his mouth to say just that when he’s struck by a sudden realization. His place. The one he’d broken the lease to, and has to be out of in five short days. Because he’s moving. 

To California. 

“Well, fuck.”

Steve looks at him in confusion, his brows coming together. “We can do another night, Bill. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not that,” Billy groans, collapsing into the folding chair next to the Pontiac. “I just. Forgot to mention something pretty fucking important. I’m, uh. I’m moving in less than a week. Back to California.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and Steve goes rigid. “You are?”

“Yeah. I didn’t- I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about it. If that changes things, I get it. I know long distance isn’t the easiest- ”

“I’ll just come with you,” Steve blurts. He looks shocked by his own words, blinking rapidly. “If you wanted me to, I could. But that’s- I know it’s early. Long distance is doable. I’m willing to do it, I mean.”

Billy just stares at him for a long stretch, until Steve starts to fold in on himself under the intensity of his gaze. “You’d do that? Move all the way out to California?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Steve starts, shrugging absentmindedly, “I don’t have anything keeping me here. I work at fucking Family Video and my parents kicked me out a while ago, so… yeah. Not much tying me down at the moment.”

It’s a bad idea. An incredibly stupid, reckless plan that Billy latches onto with all his might, already imagining himself lounging on the beach with Steve, introducing him to all of his friends, taking him out to some gay clubs to help him get more comfortable with this newfound part of himself.

He imagines Steve meeting his mom, imagines getting to wake up to Steve’s face every morning because he’s an adult and his mom wouldn’t care about him having a guy stay over in his room. It’s just countless images of him and Steve, growing and healing and learning together on the west coast, side by side.

“Yes,” Billy finally says, not giving it a second thought. “If you’re asking me if you can come, the answer is yes.”

Steve looks at him in moderate disbelief. Then, his face is breaking out into a blinding smile, color filling his cheeks. “You’re serious? You want me to come with you?”

“As a heart attack.”

When Steve crouches down in front of the chair Billy is sitting in and takes his face between his hands, kissing him hard on the lips, Billy is ready for it. 

They share a lot of kisses over the next few days. They also spend a lot of time rolling around in Billy’s bed, even as the inside of his house grows more and more barren with each new box that gets packed up. But as empty as it may be getting, it always feels like home when Steve is around. 

Steve hauls what little stuff he has over to Billy’s place the day of the move, loading it up into the U-Haul trailer Billy had rented and hitched to the back of the Camaro. He’d offered to let Steve follow in the Mustang so he wouldn’t have to leave his car behind, but Steve insisted that it’d been a manipulative ‘gift’ from his father and left it sitting in his parents’ driveway.

They have the U-Haul completely loaded up save for a few scattered boxes by mid-afternoon, both of them sweating from the exertion but slightly buzzed from the beers they’ve been sucking down as they work. 

“We did it,” Steve says, sounding rather proud of himself. “You’re all packed up. How do you feel?”

Billy tries to put how he’s feeling into words, having a hard time articulating exactly what it is that he’s feeling right now. It’s happiness, certainly, but it’s laced with so many other things that it becomes virtually indescribable. 

So he doesn’t bother trying, choosing instead to take Steve by the hand and pull him in for a kiss.

This time, when Billy kisses him, Steve doesn’t pull away. This time, when Billy kisses him, Steve kisses him back, warm and pliant and humming his satisfaction. This time, when Billy kisses him, Steve lets Billy cradle his face between his hands, Steve’s own delicate hands holding onto Billy’s wrists. 

This time, when Billy kisses him, they’re finally moving forward instead of regressing backward.

Billy steps back, but grabs one of Steve’s hands and laces their fingers together to keep him close. They turn to look at the house one last time, hand in hand, Steve’s head resting on Billy’s shoulder. Then, they’re loading the last of Billy’s belongings into the U-Haul.

The fateful words of Billy’s fortune cookie echo in his mind as they drive out of Hawkins, a stark reminder of where he’s been, and where he’s headed. 

_A fresh start will put you on your way_.

With Steve’s hand resting on his thigh and the mixtape he’d burned for Billy trickling from the speakers, the words have never felt more true. They race toward the Indiana skyline with the windows down, practically scream-singing along to REO Speedwagon, the deadweight of their past finally lifting from their shoulders.

A fresh start, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at [hartigays](https://hartigays.tumblr.com/)


End file.
